THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND  :! 
,S  M LRWOOD 

TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  I AVERS  : 
NEW  FOE  MS 


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COLLEGE  OF 

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gift  or  Duchesne  College 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/collectedpoems02noye_0 


COLLECTED  POEMwS 

VOLUME  II. 


COLLECTED  POEMS 


BY 

ALFRED  NOYES 


VOLUME  TWO 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS 


_ .PTiboz'f 
207,34  ■ <y&  P'S 

v!Vz 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

copyright,  1906,  1907,  1908,  by 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1909,  1910,  1911,  BY 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1906,  1909,  BY 
ALFRED  NOYES 


All  rights  reserved , including  that  of  translation  into  foreign  languages , 
including  the  Scandinavian.  All  dramatic  and  acting  rights,  both  pro- 
fessional and  amateur , are  reserved.  Application  for  the  right  of  per • 
forming  should  be  made  to  the  publishers 


CONTENTS 


Page 

Mist  in  the  Valley 1 

A Song  of  the  Plough 4 

The  Banner 6 

Rank  and  File 6 

The  Sky-Lark  Caged 11 

The  Lovers’  Flight 13 

The  Rock  Pool 16 

The  Island  Hawk  20 

The  Admiral’s  Ghost 26 

Edinburgh 29 

In  a Railway  Carriage 30 

An  East-End  Coffee-Stall 32 

Red  of  the  Dawn  33 

The  Dream-Child’s  Invitation 35 

The  Tramp  Transfigured 37 

On  the  Downs  50 

A May-Day  Carol 52 

The  Call  of  the  Spring 53 

A Devonshire  Ditty 55 

Bacchus  and  the  Pirates 56 

The  Newspaper  Boy 64 

The  Two  Worlds  66 

Gorse 68  ^ 

For  the  Eightieth  Birthday  of  George  Meredith  69 

In  Memory  of  Swinburne 70 

On  the  Death  of  Francis  Thompson 72 

In  Memory  of  Meredith 74 

The  Testimony  of  Art 76 

The  Scholars 76 

Resurrection 77 

A Japanese  Love-Song 78 

The  Two  Painters  . 79 

The  Enchanted  Island 5 . . 88 

Unity 92 

3406 


VI 


CONTENTS 


Paqk 

The  Hill-Flower 93 

Action 95 

Lucifer’s  Feast . 101 

Veterans 107 

The  Quest  Renewed 108 

The  Lights  of  Home 109 

’Tween  the  Lights 110 

Creation 113 

The  Peacemaker 115 

The  Sailor-King 117 

The  Fiddler’s  Farewell 118 

To  a Pessimist 119 

Mount  Ida 120 

The  Electric  Tram 127 

Sherwood  . 128 

Tales  of  the  Mermaid  Tavern 

I A Knight  of  the  Ocean-Sea 274 

II  A Coiner  of  Angels 285 

III  Black  Bill’s  Honey-Moon 303 

IV  The  Sign  of  the  Golden  Shoe  ....  322 

V  The  Companion  of  a Mile 340 

VI  Big  Ben 351 

VII  The  Burial  of  a Queen 361 

VIII  Flos  Mercatorum 386 

IX  Raleigh .411 

A Watchword  of  the  Fleet 434 

New  Wars  for  Old 435 

The  Prayer  for  Peace 436 

The  Sword  of  England 438 

The  Dawn  of  Peace 438 

The  Bringers  of  Good  News . 440 

At  Noon 442 

To  a Friend  of  Boyhood  Lost  at  Sea 443 

Our  Lady  of  the  Twilight 444 

The  Hill-Flowers 445 

The  Carol  of  the  Fir-Tree 447 

Lavender 450 


COLLECTED  POEMS 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

MIST  IN  THE  VALLEY 

I 

Mist  in  the  valley,  weeping  mist 
Beset  my  homeward  way. 

No  gleam  of  rose  or  amethyst 
Hallowed  the  parting  day; 

A shroud,  a shroud  of  awful  grey 
Wrapped  every  woodland  brow, 

And  drooped  in  crumbling  disarray 
Around  each  wintry  bough. 

II 

And  closer  round  me  now  it  clung 
Until  I scarce  could  see 
The  stealthy  pathway  overhung 
By  silent  tree  and  tree 
Which  floated  in  that  mystery 
As — poised  in  waveless  deeps — 
Branching  in  worlds  below  the  sea, 

The  grey  sea-forest  sleeps. 

III 

Mist  in  the  valley,  mist  no  less 
Within  my  groping  mind ! 

The  stile  swam  out:  a wilderness 
Rolled  round  it,  grey  and  blind. 

1 


2 


MIST  IN  THE  VALLEY 


A yard  in  front,  a yard  behind, 

So  strait  my  world  was  grown, 

I stooped  to  win  once  more  some  kind 
Glimmer  of  twig  or  stone. 


IV 

I crossed  and  lost  the  friendly  stile 
And  listened.  Never  a sound 
Came  to  me.  Mile  on  mile  on  mile 
It  seemed  the  world  around 
Beneath  some  infinite  sea  lay  drowned 
With  all  that  e'er  drew  breath; 
Whilst  I,  alone,  had  strangely  found 
A moment's  life  in  death. 


V 

A universe  of  lifeless  grey 
Oppressed  me  overhead. 

Below,  a yard  of  clinging  clay 
With  rotting  foliage  red 
Glimmered.  The  stillness  of  the  dead, 
Hark! — was  it  broken  now 
By  the  slow  drip  of  tears  that  bled 
From  hidden  heart  or  bough. 


VI 

Mist  in  the  valley,  mist  no  less 
That  muffled  every  cry 
Across  the  soul's  grey  wilderness 
Where  faith  lay  down  to  die; 
Buried  beyond  all  hope  was  I, 
Hope  had  no  meaning  there: 

A yard  above  my  head  the  sky 
Could  only  mock  at  prayer. 


MIST  IN  THE  VALLEY 


3 


VII 

E'en  as  I groped  along,  the  gloom 
Suddenly  shook  at  my  feet! 

O,  strangely  as  from  a rending  tomb 
In  resurrection,  sweet 
Swift  wings  tumultuously  beat 
Away!  I paused  to  hark — 

O,  birds  of  thought,  too  fair,  too  fleet 
To  follow  across  the  dark! 

VIII 

Yet,  like  a madman's  dream,  there  came 
One  fair  swift  flash  to  me 
Of  distances,  of  streets  a-flame 
With  joy  and  agony, 

And  further  yet,  a moon-lit  sea 
Foaming  across  its  bars, 

And  further  yet,  the  infinity 
Of  wheeling  suns  and  stars, 

IX 

And  further  yet  . . . O,  mist  of  suns 
I grope  amidst  your  light, 

O,  further  yet,  what  vast  response 
From  what  transcendent  height? 

Wild  wings  that  burst  thro'  death's  dim  night 
I can  but  pause  and  hark; 

For  0,  ye  are  too  swift,  too  white, 

To  follow  across  the  dark! 

X 

Mist  in  the  valley,  yet  I saw, 

And  in  my  soul  I knew 
The  gleaming  City  whence  I draw 
The  strength  that  then  I drew, 

My  misty  pathway  to  pursue 
With  steady  pulse  and  breath 
Through  these  dim  forest-ways  of  dew 
And  darkness,  life  and  death. 


A 


A SONG  OF  THE  PLOUGH 


A SONG  OF  THE  PLOUGH 
I 

(Morning.) 

Idle,  comfortless,  bare, 

The  broad  bleak  acres  lie: 

The  ploughman  guides  the  sharp  ploughshare 
Steadily  nigh. 

The  big  plough-horses  lift 
And  climb  from  the  marge  of  the  sea, 

And  the  clouds  of  their  breath  on  the  clear  wind  drift 
Over  the  fallow  lea. 

Streaming  up  with  the  yoke, 

Brown  as  the  sweet-smelling  loam, 

Thro’  a sun-swept  smother  of  sweat  and  smoke 
The  two  great  horses  come. 

Up  thro’  the  raw  cold  morn 

They  trample  and  drag  and  swing; 

And  my  dreams  are  waving  with  ungrown  corn 
In  a far-off  spring. 

It  is  my  soul  lies  bare 

Between  the  hills  and  the  sea: 

Come,  ploughman  Life,  with  thy  sharp  ploughshare, 
And  plough  the  field  for  me. 


II 

(Evening.) 

Over  the  darkening  plain 
As  the  stars  regain  the  sky, 
Steals  the  chime  of  an  unseen  rein 
Steadily  nigh. 


A SONG  OF  THE  PLOUGH 


5 


Lost  in  the  deepening  red 

The  sea  has  forgotten  the  shore: 

The  great  dark  steeds  with  their  muffled  tread 
Draw  near  once  more. 

To  the  furrow's  end  they  sweep 
Like  a sombre  wave  of  the  sea, 

Lifting  its  crest  to  challenge  the  deep 
Hush  of  Eternity. 

Still  for  a moment  they  stand, 

Massed  on  the  sun's  red  death, 

A surge  of  bronze,  too  great,  too  grand, 

To  endure  for  more  than  a breath. 

Only  the  billow  and  stream 
Of  muscle  and  flank  and  mane 

Like  darkling  mountain-cataracts  gleam 
Gripped  in  a Titan's  rein. 

Once  more  from  the  furrow's  end 
They  wheel  to  the  fallow  lea, 

And  down  the  muffled  slope  descend 
To  the  sleeping  sea. 

And  the  fibrous  knots  of  clay, 

And  the  sun-dried  clots  of  earth 

Cleave,  and  the  sunset  cloaks  the  grey 
Wa^te  and  the  stony  dearth! 

0,  broad  and  dusky  and  sweet, 

The  sunset  covers  the  weald; 

But  my  dreams  are  waving  with  golden  wheat 
In  a still  strange  field. 

My  soul,  my  soul  lies  bare, 

Between  the  hills  and  the  sea; 

Come,  ploughman  Death,  with  thy  sharp  ploughshare, 
sAnd  plough  the  field  for  me. 


6 


RANK  AND  FILE 


THE  BANNER 

Who  in  the  gorgeous  vanguard  of  the  years 
With  winged  helmet  glistens,  let  him  hold 

Ere  he  pluck  down  this  banner,  crying  “It  bears 
An  old  device”;  for,  though  it  seem  the  old, 

It  is  the  new!  No  rent  shroud  of  the  past, 

But  its  transfigured  spirit  that  still  shines 
Triumphantly  before  the  foremost  lines. 

Even  from  the  first  prophesying  the  last. 

And  whoso  dreams  to  pluck  it  down  shall  stand 
Bewildered,  while  the  great  host  thunders  by; 

And  he  shall  show  the  rent  shroud  in  his  hand 
And  “Lo,  I lead  the  van!”  he  still  shall  cry; 

While  leagues  away,  the  spirit-banner  shines 

Rushing  in  triumph  before  the  foremost  lines. 


RANK  AND  FILE 

I 

Drum-taps!  Drum-taps!  Who  is  it  marching, 
Marching  past  in  the  night?  Ah,  hark, 

Draw  your  curtains  aside  and  see 
Endless  ranks  of  the  stars  o’er-arching 
Endless  ranks  of  an  army  marching, 

Marching  out  of  the  measureless  dark, 

Marching  away  to  Eternity. 

II 

See  the  gleam  of  the  white  sad  faces 
Moving  steadily,  rcw  on  row, 

Marching  away  to  their  hopeless  wars: 
Drum-taps,  drum-taps,  where  are  they  marching? 
Terrible,  beautiful,  human  faces, 

Common  as  dirt,  but  softer  than  snow, 

Coarser  than  clay,  but  calm  as  the  stars. 


RANK  AND  FILE 


7 


III 

Is  it  the  last  rank  readily,  steadily 

Swinging  away  to  the  unknown  doom? 

Ere  you  can  think  it,  the  drum-taps  beat 
Louder,  and  here  they  come  inarching,  marching, 
Great  new  level  locked  ranks  of  them  readily 
Steadily  swinging  out  of  the  gloom 
Marching  endlessly  down  the  street. 


IV 

Unregarded  imperial  regiments 

White  from  the  roaring  intricate  places 
Deep  in  the  maw  of  the  world’s  machine, 
Well  content,  they  are  marching,  marching, 
Unregarded  imperial  regiments, 

Ay,  and  there  are  those  terrible  faces 

Great  world-heroes  that  might  have  been. 


V 

Hints  and  facets  of  One — the  Eternal, 

Faces  of  grief,  compassion  and  pain, 

Faces  of  hunger,  faces  of  stone, 

Faces  of  love  and  of  labour,  marching, 
Changing  facets  of  One — the  Eternal, 

Streaming  up  thro’  the  wind  and  the  rain. 
All  together  and  each  alone. 


VI 

You  that  doubt  of  the  world’s  one  Passion, 

You  for  whose  science  the  stars  are  a-stray, 
Hark — to  their  orderly  thunder-tread! 
These,  in  the  night,  with  the  stars  are  marching 
One  to  the  end  of  the  world’s  one  Passion! 

You  that  have  taken  their  Master  away, 
Where  have  you  laid  Him,  living  or  dead? 


RANK  AND  FILE 


VII 

You  whose  laws  have  hidden  the  One  Law, 

You  whose  searchings  obscure  the  goal, 

You  whose  systems  from  chaos  begun, 
Chance-born,  order-less,  hark,  they  are  marching, 
Hearts  and  tides  and  stars  to  the  One  Law, 
Measured  and  orderly,  rhythmical,  whole, 
Multitudinous,  welded  and  one. 


VIII 

Split  your  threads  of  the  seamless  purple, 
Round  you  marches  the  world-wide  host, 
Round  your  skies  is  the  marching  sky, 
Out  in  the  night  there's  an  army  marching, 
Clothed  with  the  night's  own  seamless  purple, 
Making  death  for  the  King  their  boast, 
Marching  straight  to  Eternity. 


IX 

What  do  you  know  of  the  shot-riddled  banners 
Royally  surging  out  of  the  gloom, 

You  whose  denials  their  souls  despise? 

Out  in  the  night  they  are  marching,  marching! 
Treasure  your  wisdom,  and  leave  them  their  banners! 
Then — when  you  follow  them  down  to  the  tomb 
Pray  for  one  glimpse  of  the  faith  in  their  eyes. 


X 

Pray  for  one  gleam  of  the  white  sad  faces, 
Moving  steadily,  row  on  row, 

Marching  away  to  their  hopeless  wars, 
Doomed  to  be  trodden  like  dung,  but  marching, 
Terrible,  beautiful  human  faces, 

Common  as  dirt,  but  softer  than  snow, 
Coarser  than  clay,  but  calm  as  the  stars. 


RANK  AND  FILE 


3 


XI 

What  of  the  end?  Will  your  knowledge  escape  it? 
What  oi  the  end  of  their  dumb  dark  tears? 

You  who  mock  at  their  faith  and  sing, 

Look,  for  their  ragged  old  banners  are  marching 
Down  to  the  end — will  your  knowledge  escape  it? — - 
Down  to  the  end  of  a few  brief  years! 

What  should  they  care  for  the  wisdom  you  bring. 


XII 

Count  as  they  pass,  their  hundreds,  thousands, 
Millions,  marching  away  to  a doom 
Younger  than  London,  older  that  Tyre! 
Drum-taps,  drum-taps,  where  are  they  marching. 
Regiments,  nations,  empires,  marching? 

Down  thro*  the  jaws  of  a world-wide  tomb, 
Doomed  or  ever  they  sprang  from  the  mire! 


XIII 

Doomed  to  be  shovelled  like  dung  to  the  midden, 
Trodden  and  kneaded  as  clay  in  the  road, 
Father  and  little  one,  lover  and  friend, 

Out  in  the  night  they  are  marching,  marching, 
Doomed  to  be  shovelled  like  dung  to  the  midden^ 
Bodies  that  bowed  beneath  Christ's  own  load, 
Love  that — marched  to  the  self-same  end. 


XIV 

What  of  the  end? — 0,  not  of  your  glory, 

Not  of  your  wealth  or  your  fame  that  will  live 
Half  as  long  as  this  pellet  of  dust! — 

Out  in  the  night  there's  an  army  marching, 
Nameless,  noteless,  empty  of  glory, 

Ready  to  suffer  and  die  and  forgive, 

Marching  onward  in  simple  trust, 


10 


RANK  AND  FILE 


Wearing  their  poor  little  toy  love-tokens 
Under  the  march  of  the  terrible  skies! 

Is  it  a jest  for  a God  to  play? — 

Whose  is  the  jest  of  these  millions  marching, 
Wearing  their  poor  little  toy  love-tokens, 
Waving  their  voicelessly  grand  good-byes, 
Secretly  trying,  sometimes,  to  pray. 


XVI 

Dare  you  dream  their  trust  in  Eternity 
Broken,  O you  to  whom  prayers  are  vain, 
You  who  dream  that  their  God  is  dead? 
Take  your  answer — these  millions  marching 
Out  of  Eternity,  into  Eternity, 

These  that  smiled  “We  shall  meet  again,” 
Even  as  the  life  from  their  loved  one  fled 


XVII 

This  is  the  answer,  not  of  the  sages, 

Not  of  the  loves  that  are  ready  to  part, 
Ready  to  find  their  oblivion  sweet! 

Out  in  the  night  there’s  an  army  marching, 
Men  that  have  toiled  .thro’  the  endless  ages, 
Men  of  the  pit  and  the  desk  and  the  mart, 
Men  that  remember,  the  men  in  the  street, 


XVIII 

These  that  into  the  gloom  of  Eternity 

Stream  thro’  the  dream  of  this  lamp-starred  town 
London,  an  army  of  clouds  to-night! 

These  that  of  old  came  marching,  marching, 

Out  of  the  terrible  gloom  of  Eternity, 

Bowing  their  heads  at  Rameses’  frown. 

Streaming  away  thro’  Babylon’s  light; 


THE  SKY-LARK  CAGED 


11 


XIX 

These  that  swept  at  the  sound  of  the  trumpet 
Out  thro’  the  night  like  gonfaloned  clouds, 
Exiled  hosts  when  the  world  was  Rome, 
Tossing  their  tattered  old  eagles,  marching 
Down  to  sleep  till  the  great  last  trumpet, 
London,  Nineveh,  rend  your  shrouds, 

Rally  the  legions  and  lead  them  home, 

XX 

Lead  them  home  with  their  glorious  faces 
Moving  steadily,  row  on  row 

Marching  up  from  the  end  of  wars, 

Out  of  the  Valley  of  Shadows,  marching, 
Terrible,  beautiful,  human  faces, 

Common  as  dirt,  but  softer  than  snow, 
Coarser  than  clay,  but  calm  as  the  stars, 

XXI 

Marching  out  of  the  endless  ages, 

Marching  out  of  the  dawn  of  time, 

Endless  columns  of  unknown  men. 
Endless  ranks  of  the  stars  o’er-arching 
Endless  ranks  of  an  army  marching 
Numberless  out  of  the  numberless  ages, 

Men  out  of  every  race  and  clime, 

Marching  steadily,  now  as  then. 


THE  SKY-LARK  CAGED 

I 

Beat,  little  breast,  against  the  wires. 

Strive,  little  wings  and  misted  eyes 
Which  one  wild  gleam  of  memory  fires 
Beseeching  still  the  unfettered  skies, 

Whither  at  dewy  dawn  you  sprang 

Quivering  with  joy  from  this  dark  earth  and  sang* 


12 


THE  SKY-LARK  CAGED 


II 

And  still  you  sing — your  narrow  cage 
Shall  set  at  least  your  music  free! 

Its  rapturous  wings  in  glorious  rage 
Mount  and  are  lost  in  liberty, 

While  those  who  caged  you  creep  on  earth 
Blind  prisoners  from  the  hour  that  gave  them  birth. 

III 

Sing!  The  great  City  surges  round. 

Blinded  with  light,  thou  canst  not  know. 

Dream!  ’Tis  the  fir-woods’  windy  sound 
Rolling  a psalm  of  praise  below. 

Sing,  o’er  the  bitter  dust  and  shame, 

And  touch  us  with  thine  own  transcendent  flame. 

IV 

Sing,  o’er  the  City  dust  and  slime; 

Sing,  o’er  the  squalor  and  the  gold, 

The  greed  that  darkens  earth  with  crime, 

The  spirits  that  are  bought  and  sold. 

O,  shower  the  healing  notes  like  rain, 

And  lift  us  to  the  height  of  grief  again. 

V 

Sing!  The  same  music  swells  your  breast, 

And  the  wild  notes  are  still  as  sweet 
As  when  above  the  fragrant  nest 

And  the  wide  billowing  fields  of  wheat 
You  soared  and  sang  the  livelong  day, 

And  in  the  light  of  heaven  dissolved  away. 

VI 

The  light  of  heaven!  Is  it  not  here? 

One  rapture,  one  ecstatic  joy, 

One  passion,  one  sublime  despair, 

One  grief  which  nothing  can  destroy, 

You — though  your  dying  eyes  are  wet 
Remember,  ’tis  our  blunted  hearts  forget. 


THE  LOVERS’  FLIGHT 


13 


VII 

Beat,  little  breast,  still  beat,  still  beat, 

Strive,  misted  eyes  and  tremulous  wings; 
Swell,  little  throat,  your  Sweet!  Sweet!  Sweet! 

Thro'  which  such  deathless  memory  rings: 
Better  to  break  your  heart  and  die, 

Than,  like  your  gaolers,  to  forget  your  sky. 


THE  LOVERS’  FLIGHT 

I 

Come,  the  dusk  is  lit  with  flowers! 

Quietly  take  this  guiding  hand : 

Little  breath  to  waste  is  ours 
On  the  road  to  lovers’  land. 

Time  is  in  his  dungeon-keep! 

Ah,  not  thither,  lest  he  hear, 

Starting  from  his  old  grey  sleep, 

Rosy  feet  upon  the  stair. 

II 

Ah,  not  thither,  lest  he  heed 
Ere  we  reach  the  rusty  door! 

Nay,  the  stairways  only  lead 

Back  to  his  dark  world  once  more: 
There’s  a merrier  way  we  know 
Leading  to  a lovelier  night — 

See,  your  casement  all  a-glow 
Diamonding  the  wonder-light. 

III 

Fling  the  flowery  lattice  wide, 

Let  the  silken  ladder  down, 

Swiftly  to  the  garden  glide 

Glimmering  in  your  long  white  gown, 


14 


THE  LOVERS'  FLIGHT 


Rosy  from  your  pillow,  sweet, 
Come,  unsandalled  and  divine; 
Let  the  blossoms  stain  your  feet 
And  the  stars  behold  them  shine. 


IV 

Swift,  our  pawing  palfreys  wait, 

And  the  page — Dan  Cupid — frets, ' 
Holding  at  the  garden  gate 

Reins  that  chime  like  castanets, 

Bits  a-foam  with  fairy  flakes 

Flung  from  seas  whence  Venus  rose: 
Come,  for  Father  Time  awakes 
And  the  star  of  morning  glows. 


V 

Swift — one  satin  foot  shall  sway 
Half  a heart-beat  in  my  hand, 

Swing  to  stirrup  and  swift  away 
Down  the  road  to  lovers'  land: 

Ride — the  moon  is  dusky  gold, 

Ride — our  hearts  are  young  and  warm, 
Ride — the  hour  is  growing  old, 

And  the  next  may  break  the  charm. 


VI 

Swift,  ere  we  that  thought  the  song 
Full — for  others — of  the  truth, 

We  that  smiled,  contented,  strong, 

Dowered  with  endless  wealth  of  youth; 
Find  that  like  a summer  cloud 
Youth  indeed  has  crept  away, 

Find  the  robe  a clinging  shroud 
And  the  hair  be-sprent  with  grey. 


THE  LOVERS’  FLIGHT 


15 


VII 

Ride — we’ll  leave  it  all  behind, 

All  the  turmoil  and  the  tears, 

All  the  mad  vindictive  blind 
Yelping  of  the  heartless  years! 

Ride — the  ringing  world’s  in  chase, 
Yet  we’ve  slipped  old  Father  Time, 
By  the  love-light  in  your  face 
And  the  jingle  of  this  rhyme. 


VIII 

Ride — for  still  the  hunt  is  loud! 

Ride— our  steeds  can  hold  their  ora! 
Yours,  a satin  sea- wave,  proud, 

Queen,  to  be  your  living  throne, 
Glittering  with  the  foam  and  fire 

Churned  from  seas  whence  Venus  rose, 
Tow’rds  the  gates  of  our  desire 
Gloriously  burning  flows. 


IX 

He,  with  streaming  flanks  a-smoke, 
Needs  no  spur  of  blood-stained  steel: 
Only  that  soft  thudding  stroke 
Once,  o’  the  little  satin  heel, 

Drives  his  mighty  heart,  your  slave, 
Bridled  with  these  bells  of  rhyme, 
Onward,  like  a crested  wave 
Thundering  out  of  hail  of  Time. 


X 

On,  till  from  a rosy  spark 

Fairy-small  as  gleams  your  hand, 
Broadening  as  we  cleave  the  dark, 
Dawn  the  gates  of  lovers’  land, 


10 


THE  ROCK  POOL 


Nearing,  sweet,  till  breast  and  brow 
Lifted  through  the  purple  night 
Catch  the  deepening  glory  now 
And  your  eyes  the  wonder-light. 

XI 

E'en  as  tow'rd  your  face  I lean 
Swooping  nigh  the  gates  of  bliss, 

I the  king  and  you  the  queen 
Crown  each  other  with  a kiss. 

Riding,  soaring  like  a song 

Burn  we  tow'rds  the  heaven  above, 
You  the  sweet  and  I the  strong 
And  in  both  the  fire  of  love. 

XII 

Ride — though  now  the  distant  chase 
Knows  that  we  have  slipped  old  Time, 
Lift  the  love-light  of  your  face, 

Shake  the  bridle  of  this  rhyme, 

See,  the  flowers  of  night  and  day 
Streaming  past  on  either  hand, 

Ride  into  the  eternal  May, 

Ride  into  the  lovers'  land. 


THE  ROCK  POOL 
I 

Bright  as  a fallen  fragment  of  the  sky, 

Mid  shell-encrusted  rocks  the  sea-pool  shone, 
Glassing  the  sunset-clouds  in  its  clear  heart, 

A small  enchanted  world  enwalled  apart 
In  diamond  mystery, 

Content  with  its  own  dreams,  its  own  strict  zone 
Of  urchin  woods,  its  fairy  bights  and  bars, 

Its  daisy-disked  anemones  and  rose-feathered  stars. 


THE  ROCK  POOL 


17 


II 

Forsaken  for  awhile  by  that  deep  roar 

Which  works  in  storm  and  calm  the  eternal  will, 
Drags  down  the  cliffs,  bids  the  great  hills  go  by 
And  shepherds  their  multitudinous  pageantry, — 
Here,  on  this  ebb-tide  shore 
A jewelled  bath  of  beauty,  sparkling  still, 

The  little  sea-pool  smiled  away  the  sea, 

And  slept  on  its  own  plane  of  bright  tranquillity. 


Ill 

A self-sufficing  soul,  a pool  in  trance, 

Un-stirred  by  all  the  spirit-winds  that  blow 
From  o’er  the  gulfs  of  change,  content,  ere  yet 
On  its  own  crags,  which  rough  peaked  limpets  fret 
The  last  rich  colours  glance, 

Content  to  mirror  the  sea-bird’s  wings  of  snow, 

Or  feel  in  some  small  creek,  ere  sunset  fails, 

A tiny  Nautilus  hoist  its  lovely  purple  sails: 


IV 

And,  furrowing  into  pearl  that  rosy  bar, 

Sail  its  own  soul  from  fairy  fringe  to  fringe, 

Lured  by  the  twinkling  prey  ’twas  born  to  reach 
In  its  own  pool,  by  many  an  elfin  beach 
Of  jewels,  adventuring  far 
Through  the  last  mirrored  cloud  and  sunset-tinge 
And  past  the  rainbow-dripping  cave  where  lies 
The  dark  green  pirate-crab  at  watch  with  beaded  eyes, 


2 


18 


THE  ROCK  POOL 


V 

Or  fringed  Medusa  floats  like  light  in  light, 

Medusa,  with  the  loveliest  of  all  fays 
Pent  in  its  irised  bubble  of  jellied  sheen, 

Trailing  long  ferns  of  moonlight,  shot  with  green 
And  crimson  rays  and  white, 

Waving  ethereal  tendrils,  ghostly  sprays, 

Daring  the  deep,  dissolving  in  the  sun, 

The  vanishing  point  of  life,  the  light  whence  life 
begun. 


VI 

Poised  between  me,  light,  time,  eternity, 

So  tinged  with  all,  that  in  its  delicate  brain 
Kindling  it  as  a lamp  with  her  bright  wings 
Day-long,  night-long,  young  Ariel  sits  and  sings 
Echoing  the  lucid  sea, 

Listening  it  echo  her  own  unearthly  strain, 

Watching  through  lucid  walls  the  world’s  rich  tide, 
One  light,  one  substance  with  her  own,  rise  and 
subside. 


VII 

And  over  soft  brown  woods,  limpid,  serene, 

Puffing  its  fans  the  Nautilus  went  its  way, 

And  from  a hundred  salt  and  weedy  shelves 
Peered  little  horned  faces  of  sea-elves : 

The  prawn  darted,  half-seen, 

Thro’  watery  sunlight,  like  a pale  green  ray, 

And  all  around,  from  soft  green  waving  bowers, 
Creatures  like  fruit  out-crept  from  fluted  shells  like 
flowers. 


THE  ROCK  POOL 


19 


VIII 

And,  over  all,  that  glowing  mirror  spread 
The  splendour  of  its  heaven-reflecting  gleams, 

A level  wealth  of  tints,  calm  as  the  sky 
That  broods  above  our  own  mortality: 

The  temporal  seas  had  fled, 

And  ah,  what  hopes,  what  fears,  what  mystic  dreams 
Could  ruffle  it  now  from  any  deeper  deep? 

Content  in  its  own  bounds  it  slept  a changeless  sleep. 


IX 


Suddenly,  from  that  heaven  beyond  belief, 
Suddenly,  from  that  world  beyond  its  ken, 
Dashing  great  billows  o’er  its  rosy  bars, 

Shivering  its  dreams  into  a thousand  stars, 

Flooding  each  sun-dried  reef 
With  waves  of  colour,  (as  once,  for  mortal  men 
Bethesda’s  angel)  with  blue  eyes,  wide  and  wild, 
Naked  into  the  pool  there  stepped  a little  child. 


X 

Her  red-gold  hair  against  the  far  green  sea 
Blew  thickly  out:  her  slender  golden  form 
Shone  dark  against  the  richly  waning  West 
As  with  one  hand  she  splashed  her  glistening  breast, 
Then  waded  up  to  her  knee 
And  frothed  the  whole  pool  into  a fairy  storm!  . . . 
So,  stooping  through  our  skies,  of  old,  there  came 
Angels  that  once  could  set  this  world’s  dark  pool 
a-flame, 


3406 


20 


THE  ISLAND  HAWK 


XI 

From  which  the  seas  of  faith  have  ebbed  away, 

Leaving  the  lonely  shore  too  bright,  too  bare, 

While  mirrored  softly  in  the  smooth  wet  sand 
A deeper  sunset  sees  its  blooms  expand 
But  all  too  phantom-fair, 

Between  the  dark  brown  rocks  and  sparkling  spray 
Where  the  low  ripples  pleaded,  shrank  and  sighed, 
And  tossed  a moment’s  rainbow  heavenward  ere  they 
died. 


XII 

Stoop,  starry  souls,  incline  to  this  dark  coast, 

Where  all  too  long,  too  faithlessly,  we  dream. 

Stoop  to  the  world’s  dark  pool,  its  crags  and  scars, 

Its  yellow  sands,  its  rosy  harbour-bars, 

And  soft  green  wastes  that  gleam 
But  with  some  glorious  drifting  god-like  ghost 
Of  cloud,  some  vaguely  passionate  crimson  stain: 
Rend  the  blue  waves  of  heaven,  shatter  our  sleep 
again! 


THE  ISLAND  HAWK 

(a  song  for  the  first  launching  of  his 
majesty’s  aerial  navy) 

I 

Chorus — 

Ships  have  swept  with  my  conquering  name 
Over  the  waves  of  war , 

Swept  throJ  the  Spaniards ’ thunder  and  flame 
To  the  splendour  of  Trafalgar: 

On  the  blistered  decks  of  their  great  renown , 


THE  ISLAND  HAWK 


21 


In  the  wind  of  my  storm-heat  wings , 

Hawkins  and  Hawke  went  sailing  down 
To  the  harbour  of  deep-sea  kings ! 

By  the  storm-beat  wings  of  the  hawk , the  hawk , 
Beni  beak  and  pitiless  breast , 

They  clove  their  way  thro y the  red  sea-fray: 
Who  wakens  me  now  to  the  quest? 


II 

Hushed  are  the  whimpering  winds  on  the  hill, 

Dumb  is  the  shrinking  plain, 

And  the  songs  that  enchanted  the  woods  are  still 
As  I shoot  to  the  skies  again! 

Does  the  blood  grow  black  on  my  fierce  bent  beak, 
Does  the  down  still  cling  to  my  claw? 

Who  brightened  these  eyes  for  the  prey  they  seek? 
Life,  I follow  thy  law! 

For  I am  th x hawk , the  hawk , the  hawk! 

Who  knoweth  my  pitiless  breast? 

Who  watcheth  me  sway  in  the  wild  windys  way? 
Flee — flee — for  I quest , I quest . 


Ill 

As  I glide  and  glide  with  my  peering  head, 

Or  swerve  at  a puff  of  smoke, 

Who  watcheth  my  wings  on  the  wind  outspread, 
Here — gone — with  an  instant  stroke? 

Who  toucheth  the  glory  of  life  I feel 
As  I buffet  this  great  glad  gale, 

Spire  and  spire  to  the  cloud-world,  wheel, 

Loosen  my  wings  and  sail? 

For  I am  the  hawk , the  island  hawk , 

Who  knoweth  my  pitiless  breast? 

Who  watcheth  me  sway  in  the  sunys  bright  way? 
Flee — flee — for  I quest , I quest. 


22 


THE  ISLAND  HAWK 


IV 

Had  they  given  me  “ Cloud-cuckoo-city  ” to  guard 
Between  mankind  and  the  sky, 

Tho’  the  dew  might  shine  on  an  April  sward, 

Iris  had  ne’er  passed  by! 

Swift  as  her  beautiful  wings  might  be 
From  the  rosy  Olympian  hill, 

Had  Epops  entrusted  the  gates  to  me 
Earth  were  his  kingdom  still. 

For  I am  the  hawk , the  archer , the  hawk! 

Who  knoweth  my  pitiless  breast? 

Who  watcheth  me  sway  in  the  wild  wind’s  way? 
Flee — flee — for  I quest , I quest . 


V 

My  mate  in  the  nest  on  the  high  bright  tree 
Blazing  with  dawn  and  dew, 

She  knoweth  the  gleam  of  the  world  and  the  glee 
As  I drop  like  a bolt  from  the  blue; 

She  knoweth  the  fire  of  the  level  flight 
As  I skim,  close,  close  to  the  ground, 

With  the  long  grass  lashing  my  breast  and  the  bright 
Dew-drops  flashing  around. 

She  watcheth  the  hawk , the  hawk , the  hawk , 

(0,  the  red-blotched  eggs  in  the  nest!) 

Watcheth  him  sway  in  the  sun’s  bright  way; 

Flee — flee — for  I quest , I quest. 


VI 

She  builded  her  nest  on  the  high  bright  wold, 
She  was  taught  in  a world  afar, 

The  lore  that  is  only  an  April  old 
Yet  old  as  t{ie  evening  star; 


THE  ISLAND  HAWK 


23 


Life  of  a far  off  ancient  day 
In  an  hour  unhooded  her  eyes; 

In  the  time  of  the  budding  of  one  green  spray 
She  was  wise  as  the  stars  are  wise. 

Brown  flower  of  the  tree  of  the  hawk , the  hawk , 
On  the  old  elm's  burgeoning  breast , 

She  watcheth  me  sway  in  the  wild  wind's  way; 
Flee — flee — for  I quest , I quest . 


VII 

Spirit  and  sap  of  the  sweet  swift  Spring, 

Fire  of  our  island  soul, 

Bum  in  her  breast  and  pulse  in  her  wing 
While  the  endless  ages  roll; 

Avatar — she — of  the  perilous  pride 
That  plundered  the  golden  West, 

Her  glance  is  a sword,  but  it  sweeps  too  wide 
For  a rumour  to  trouble  her  rest. 

She  goeth  her  glorious  way , the  hawk , 
She  nurseth  her  brood  alone; 

She  will  not  swoop  for  an  owlet's  whoop , 
She  hath  calls  and  cries  of  her  own . 


VIII 

There  was  never  a dale  in  our  isle  so  deep 
That  her  wide  wings  were  not  free 
To  soar  to  the  sovran  heights  and  keep 
Sight  of  the  rolling  sea : 

Is  it  there,  is  it  here  in  the  rolling  skies, 

The  realm  of  her  future  fame? 

Look  once,  look  once  in  her  glittering  eyes, 

Ye  shall  find  her  the  same,  the  same. 

Up  to  the  skies  with  the  hawk , the  hawk , 

As  it  was  in  the  days  of  old! 

Ye  shall  sail  once  more , ye  shall  soar , ye  shall 
soar 

To  the  new-found  realms  of  gold . 


24 


THE  ISLAND  HAWK 


IX 

She  hath  ridden  on  white  Arabian  steeds 
Thro7  the  ringing  English  dells, 

For  the  joy  of  a great  queen,  hunting  in  state, 

To  the  music  of  golden  bells; 

A queen's  fair  fingers  have  drawn  the  hood 
And  tossed  her  aloft  in  the  blue, 

A white  hand  eager  for  needless  blood; 

I hunt  for  the  needs  of  two. 

Yet  I am  the  hawk , the  hawk , the  hawk! 

Who  knoweth  my  pitiless  hr  east? 

Who  walcheth  me  sway  in  the  sun’s  bright  way ? 
Flee — flee — for  I quest , I quest . 


X 

Who  fashioned  her  wide  and  splendid  eyes 
Thafi  have  stared  in  the  eyes  of  kings  ? 

With  a silken  twist  she  was  looped  to  their  wrist: 

She  has  clawed  at  their  jewelled  rings! 

Who  flung  her  first  thro'  the  crimson  dawn 
To  pluck  him  a prey  from  the  skies, 

When  the  love-light  shone  upon  lake  and  lawn 
In  the  valleys  of  Paradise? 

Who  fashioned  the  hawk , the  hawk , the  hawk , 
Bent  beak  and  pitiless  breast? 

Who  watcheth  him  sway  in  the  wild  wind’s  way? 
Flee — flee — for  I quests  I quest . 


XI 

Is  there  ever  a song  in  all  the  world 
Shall  say  how  the  quest  began 
With  the  beak  and  the  wings  that  have  made  us  kings 
And  cruel — almost — as  man? 


THE  ISLAND  HAWK 


23 


The  wild  wind  whimpers  across  the  heath 
Where  the  sad  little  tufts  of  blue 
And  the  red-stained  grey  little  feathers  of  death 
Flutter!  Who  fashioned  us?  Who? 

Who  fashioned  the  scimitar  wings  of  the  hawky 
Bent  beak  and  arrowy  breast? 

Who  watcheth  him  sway  in  the  sun7s  bright  way? 
Flee — flee— for  I questy  I quest. 


XII 

Linnet  and  woodpecker,  red-cap  and  jay, 
Shriek  that  a doom  shall  fall 
One  day,  one  day,  on  my  pitiless  way 
From  the  sky  that  is  over  us  all; 

But  the  great  blue  hawk  of  the  heavens  above 
Fashioned  the  world  for  his  prey, — 

King  and  queen  and  hawk  and  dove, 

We  shall  meet  in  his  clutch  that  day; 

Shall  I not  welcome  himy  7,  the  hawk? 

Yea , cry,  as  they  shrink  from  his  claw9 
Cry , as  I die , to  the  unknown  skyy 
Lifey  I follow  thy  law! 


XIII 


Chorus — 

Ships  have  swept  with  my  conquering  name  . . , 
Over  the  world  and  beyond, 

Hark!  Bellerophon,  Marlborough,  Thunderer, 
Condor,  respond! — 

On  the  blistered  decks  of  their  dread  renowny 
In  the  rush  of  my  storm-beat  wingsy 
Hawkins  and  Hawke  went  sailing  down 
To  the  glory  of  deep-sea  kings ! 

By  the  storm-beat  wings  of  the  hawk , the  hawk , 
Bent  beak  and  pitiless  breast , 

They  clove  their  way  thro7  the  red  sea-fray ! 
Who  wakens  me  now  to  the  quest. 


26 


THE  ADMIRAL’S  GHOST 


THE  ADMIRAL’S  GHOST 

I tell  you  a tale  to-night 
Which  a seaman  told  to  me, 

With  eyes  that  gleamed  in  the  lanthom  light 
And  a voice  as  low  as  the  sea. 

You  could  almost  hear  the  stars 
Twinkling  up  in  the  sky, 

And  the  old  wind  woke  and  moaned  in  the  spars, 
And  the  same  old  waves  went  by, 

Singing  the  same  old  song 
As  ages  and  ages  ago, 

While  he  froze  my  blood  in  that  deep-sea  night 
* With  the  things  that  he  seemed  to  know. 

A bare  foot  pattered  on  deck; 

Ropes  creaked;  then — all  grew  still, 

And  he  pointed  his  finger  straight  in  my  face 
And  growled,  as  a sea-dog  will. 

“Bo’  ee  know  who  Nelson  was? 

That  pore  little  shrivelled  form 
With  the  patch  on  his  eye  and  the  pinned-up  sleeve 
And  a soul  like  a North  Sea  storm? 

“ Ask  of  the  Devonshire  men! 

They  know,  and  they’ll  tell  you  true; 

He  wasn’t  the  pore  little  cha wed-up  chap 
That  Hardy  thought  he  knew. 

“He  wasn’t  the  man  you  think! 

His  patch  was  a dern  disguise! 

For  he  knew  that  they’d  find  him  out,  d’you  see, 

If  they  looked  him  in  both  his  eyes. 

“He  was  twice  as  big  as  he  seemed; 

But  his  clothes  were  cunningly  made. 

He’d  both  of  his  hairy  arms  all  right! 

The  sleeve  was  a trick  of  the  trade. 


THE  ADMIRAL’S  GHOST 


27 


“You’ve  heard  of  sperrits,  no  doubt; 

Well,  there’s  more  in  the  matter  than  that! 

But  he  wasn’t  the  patch  and  he  wasn’t  the  sleeve, 
And  he  wasn’t  the  laced  cocked-hat. 

“ Nelson  was  just — a Ghost! 

You  may  laugh!  But  the  Devonshire  men 
They  knew  that  he’d  come  when  England  called, 
And  they  know  that  he’ll  come  again. 

“I’ll  tell  you  the  way  it  was 

(For  none  of  the  landsmen  know), 

And  to  tell  it  you  right,  you  must  go  a-starn 
Two  hundred  years  or  so. 


“The  waves  were  lapping  and  slapping 
The  same  as  they  are  to-day ; 

And  Drake  lay  dying  aboard  his  ship 
In  Nombre  Dios  Bay. 

“The  scent  of  the  foreign  flowers 
Came  floating  all  around; 

‘But  I’d  give  my  soul  for  the  smell  o’  the  pitch/ 
Says  he,  ‘in  Plymouth  Sound. 

“ ‘What  shall  I do,’  he  says, 

‘ When  the  guns  begin  to  roar, 

An’  England  wants  me,  and  me  not  there 
To  shatter  ’er  foes  once  more?’ 

“ (You’ve  heard  what  he  said,  maybe, 

But  I’ll  mark  you  the  p’ints  again; 

For  I want  you  to  box  your  compass  right 
And  get  my  story  plain.) 

“ ‘You  must  take  my  drum,’  he  says, 

‘To  the  old  sea-wall  at  home; 

And  if  ever  you  strike  that  drum,’  he  says, 
‘Why,  strike  me  blind,  I’ll  come! 


28 


THE  ADMIRAL'S  GHOST 


" Tf  England  needs  me,  dead 
Or  living,  I'll  rise  that  day! 

I'll  rise  from  the  darkness  under  the  sea 
Ten  thousand  miles  away/ 

“That’s  what  he  said;  and  he  died; 

An’  his  pirates,  listenin’  roun’, 

With  their  crimson  doublets  and  jewelled  swords 
That  flashed  as  the  sun  went  down, 

“They  sewed  him  up  in  his  shroud 
With  a round-shot  top  and  toe, 

To  sink  him  under  the  salt  sharp  sea 
Where  all  good  seamen  go. 

“They  lowered  him  down  in  the  deep, 

And  there  in  the  sunset  light 

They  boomed  a broadside  over  his  grave, 

As  meanin’  to  say  ‘Good-night.’ 

“They  sailed  away  in  the  dark 
To  the  dear  little  isle  they  knew; 

And  they  hung  his  drum  by  the  old  sea-wall 
The  same  as  he  told  them  to. 


“Two  hundred  years  went  by, 

And  the  guns  began  to  roar, 

And  England  was  fighting  hard  for  her  life, 

As  ever  she  fought  of  yore. 

“‘It’s  only  my  dead  that  count,’ 

She  said,  as  she  says  to-day; 

‘ It  isn’t  the  ships  and  it  isn’t  the  guns 
’Ull  sweep  Trafalgar’s  Bay/ 

“D’you  guess  who  Nelson  was? 

You  may  laugh,  but  it’s  true  as  true! 

There  was  more  in  that  pore  little  cha wed-up  chap 
Than  ever  his  best  friend  knew. 


EDINBURGH 


29 


“The  foe  was  creepin’  close, 

In  the  dark,  to  our  white-cliff ed  isle; 

They  were  ready  to  leap  at  England’s  throat, 

When — 0,  you  may  smile,  you  may  smile; 

“But — ask  of  the  Devonshire  men; 

For  they  heard  in  the  dead  of  night 
The  roll  of  a drum,  and  they  saw  him  pass 
On  a ship  all  shining  white. 

“He  stretched  out  his  dead  cold  face 
And  he  sailed  in  the  grand  old  way! 

The  fishes  had  taken  an  eye  and  his  arm, 

But  he  swept  Trafalgar’s  Bay. 

“Nelson — was  Francis  Drake! 

0,  what  matters  the  uniform, 

Or  the  patch  on  your  eye  or  your  pinned-up  sleeve, 
If  your  soul’s  like  a North  Sea  storm?” 


EDINBURGH 

I 

City  of  mist  and  rain  and  blown  grey  spaces, 

Dashed  with  wild  wet  colour  and  gleam  of  tears, 
Dreaming  in  Holyrood  halls  of  the  passionate  faces 
Lifted  to  one  Queen’s  face  that  has  conquered  the  years, 
Are  not  the  halls  of  thy  memory  haunted  places? 

Cometh  there  not  as  a moon  (where  the  blood-rust  sears 
Floors  a-flutter  of  old  with  silks  and  laces), 

Gliding,  a ghostly  Queen,  thro’  a mist  of  tears? 


II 

Proudly  here,  with  a loftier  pinnacled  splendour, 
Throned  in  his  northern  Athens,  what  spells  remain 
Still  on  the  marble  lips  of  the  Wizard,  and  render 
Silent  the  gazer  on  glory  without  a stain ! 


30 


IN  A RAILWAY  CARRIAGE 


Here  and  here,  do  we  whisper,  with  hearts  more  tender, 
Tusitala  wandered  thro’  mist  and  rain; 

Rainbow-eyed  and  frail  and  gallant  and  slender, 
Dreaming  of  pirate-isles  in  a jewelled  main. 


Ill 

Up  the  Canongate  climbeth,  cleft  asunder 

Raggedly  here,  with  a glimpse  of  the  distant  sea 
Flashed  through  a crumbling  alley,  a glimpse  of  wonder, 
Nay,  for  the  City  is  throned  on  Eternity! 

Hark!  from  the  soaring  castle  a cannon’s  thunder 
Closeth  an  hour  for  the  world  and  an  se on  for  me, 
Gazing  at  last  from  the  martial  heights  whereunder 
Deathless  memories  roll  to  an  ageless  sea. 


IN  A RAILWAY  CARRIAGE 

Three  long  isles  of  sunset-cloud, 

Poised  in  an  ocean  of  gold, 

Floated  away  in  the  west 
As  the  long  train  southward  rolled; 

And  through  the  gleam  and  shade  of  the  panes, 
While  meadow  and  wood  went  by, 

Across  the  streaming  earth 
We  watched  the  steadfast  sky. 

Dark  before  the  westward  window, 

Heavy  and  bloated,  rolled 
The  face  of  a drunken  woman 
Nodding  against  the  gold; 

Dark  before  the  infinite  glory, 

With  bleared  and  leering  eyes, 

It  stupidly  lurched  and  nodded 
Against  the  tender  skies. 


IN  A RAILWAY  CARRIAGE 


31 


What  had  ye  done  to  her , masters  of  men , 
That  her  head  he  bowed  down  thus — 
Thus  for  your  golden  vespers , 

And  deepening  angelus? 

Dark,  besotted,  malignant,  vacant, 
Slobbering,  wrinkled,  old, 

Weary  and  wickedly  smiling, 

She  nodded  against  the  gold. 

Pitiful,  loathsome,  maudlin,  lonely, 
Her  moist,  inhuman  eyes 
Blinked  at  the  flies  on  the  window, 
And  could  not  see  the  skies. 


As  a beast  that  turns  and  returns  to  a mirror 
And  will  not  see  its  face, 

Her  eyes  rejected  the  sunset, 

Her  soul  lay  dead  in  its  place, 

Dead  in  the  furrows  and  folds  of  her  flesh 
As  a corpse  lies  lapped  in  the  shroud; 

Silently  floated  beside  her 
The  isles  of  sunset-cloud. 

What  had  ye  done  to  her , years  upon  years , 

That  her  head  should  he  bowed  down  thus — 

Thus  for  your  golden  vespers , 

And  deepening  angelus t 

Her  nails  were  blackened  and  split  with  labour, 
Her  back  was  heavily  bowed; 

Silently  floated  beside  her 
The  isles  of  sunset-cloud. 

Over  their  tapering  streaks  of  lilac, 

In  breathless  depths  afar, 

Bright  as  the  tear  of  an  angel 
Glittered  a lonely  star. 


AN  EAST-END  COFFEE-STALL 


While  the  hills  and  the  streams  of  the  world  went  past  us, 
And  the  long  train  roared  and  rolled’ 

Southward,  and  dusk  was  falling, 

She  nodded  against  the  gold. 


AN  EAST-END  COFFEE-STALL 

Down  the  dark  alley  a ring  of  orange  light 
Glows.  God,  what  leprous  tatters  of  distress, 
Droppings  of  misery,  rags  of  Thy  loneliness 
Quiver  and  heave  like  vermin,  out  of  the  night! 

Like  crippled  rats,  creeping  out  of  the  gloom, 

0 Life,  for  one  of  thy  terrible  moments  there, 

Lit  by  the  little  flickering  yellow  flare, 

Faces  that  mock  at  life  and  death  and  doom, 

Faces  that  long,  long  since  have  known  the  worst, 
Faces  of  women  that  have  seen  the  child 
Waste  in  their  arms,  and  strangely,  terribly,  smiled 
When  the  dark  nipple  of  death  has  eased  its  thirst; 

Faces  of  men  that  once,  though  long  ago, 

Saw  the  faint  light  of  hope,  though  far  away, — 

Hope  that,  at  end  of  some  tremendous  day, 

They  yet  might  reach  some  life  where  tears  could  flow; 


Faces  of  our  humanity,  ravaged,  white, 

Wrenched  with  old  love,  old  hate,  older  despair, 
Steal  out  of  vile  filth-dropping  dens  to  stare 
On  that  wild  monstrance  of  a naphtha  light. 

They  crowd  before  the  stall's  bright  altar  rail, 
Grotesque,  and  sacred,  for  that  light's  brief  span, 
And  all  the  shuddering  darkness  cries,  “All  hail, 
Daughters  and  Sons  of  Man!" 


RED  OF  THE  DAWN 


2 


See,  see,  once  more,  though  all  their  souls  be  dead, 

They  hold  it  up,  triumphantly  hold  it  up, 

They  feel,  they  warm  their  hands  upon  the  Cup; 

Their  crapulous  hands,  their  claw-like  hands  break  Bread! 

See,  with  lean  faces  rapturously  a-glow 

For  a brief  while  they  dream  and  munch  and  drink; 
Then,  one  by  one,  once  more,  silently  slink 
Back,  back  into  the  gulfing  mist.  They  go, 

One  by  one,  out  of  the  ring  of  light! 

They  creep,  like  crippled  rats,  into  the  gloom, 

Into  the  fogs  of  life  and  death  and  doom, 

Into  the  night,  the  immeasurable  night. 


RED  OF  THE  DAWN 

I 

The  Dawn  peered  in  with  blood-shot  eyes 
Pressed  close  against  the  cracked  old  pane. 
The  garret  slept:  the  slow  sad  rain 
Had  ceased:  grey  fogs  obscured  the  skies; 

But  Dawn  peered  in  with  haggard  eyes. 

II 

All  as  last  night?  The  three-legged  chair, 

The  bare  walls  and  the  tattered  bed, 

All ! — but  for  those  wild  flakes  of  red 
(And  Dawn,  perhaps,  had  splashed  them  there!) 
Round  the  bare  walls,  the  bed,  the  chair. 

III 

Twas  here,  last  night,  wdien  winds  were  loud, 

A ragged  singing-girl,  she  came 
Out  of  the  tavern's  glare  and  shame, 

With  some  few  pence — for  she  was  proud — 
Came  home  to  sleep,  when  winds  were  loud. 


,0-3 


u 


RED  OF  THE  DAWN 


IV 

And  she  sleeps  well;  for  she  was  tired? 

That  huddled  shape  beneath  the  sheet 
With  knees  up-drawn,  no  wind  or  sleet 
Can  wake  her  now!  Sleep  she  desired; 

And  she  sleeps  well,  for  she  was  tired. 

V 

And  there  was  one  that  followed  her 

With  some  unhappy  curse  called  “love”: 
Last  night,  though  winds  beat  loud  above, 
She  shrank!  Hark,  on  the  creaking  stair, 
What  stealthy  footstep  followed  her? 

VI 

But  now  the  Curse,  it  seemed,  had  gone! 

The  small  tin-box,  wherein  she  hid 
Old  childish  treasures,  had  burst  its  lid. 
Dawn  kissed  her  doll's  cracked  face.  It  shone 
Red-smeared,  but  laughing — the  Curse  is  gone . 

VII 

So  she  sleeps  well:  she  does  not  move; 

And  on  the  wall,  the  chair,  the  bed, 

Is  it  the  Dawn  that  splashes  red, 

High  as  the  text  where  God  is  Love 
Hangs  o'er  her  head?  She  does  not  move. 

VIII 

The  clock  dictates  its  old  refrain: 

All  else  is  quiet;  or,  far  away, 

Shaking  the  world  with  new-born  day, 

There  thunders  past  some  mighty  train: 

The  clock  dictates  its  old  refrain. 


THE  DREAM-CHILD’S  INVITATION 


35 


IX 

The  Dawn  peers  in  with  blood-shot  eyes: 

The  crust,  the  broken  cup  are  there! 

She  does  not  rise  yet  to  prepare 
Her  scanty  meal.  God  does  not  rise 

And  pluck  the  blood-stained  sheet  from  her; 
But  Dawn  peers  in  with  haggard  eyes. 


THE  BREAM-CHILD’S  INVITATION 


I 

Once  upon  a time! — Ah,  now  the  light  is  burning  dimly. 

Peterkin  is  here  again:  he  wants  another  tale! 

Don’t  you  hear  him  whispering — The  wind  is  in  the  chimley , 
The  ottoman's  a treasure-ship  y we'll  all  set  sail t 


II 

All  set  sail?  No,  the  wind  is  very  loud  to-night: 

The  darkness  on  the  waters  is  much  deeper  than  of  yore. 
Yet  I wonder — hark,  he  whispers — if  the  little  streets  are  still 
as  bright 

In  old  Japan,  in  old  Japan,  that  happy  haunted  shore. 


Ill 

I wonder — hush,  he  whispers — if  perhaps  the  world  will  wake 
again 

When  Christmas  brings  the  stories  back  from  where  the 
skies  are  blue, 

Where  clouds  are  scattering  diamonds  down  on  every  cottage 
window-pane, 

And  every  boy’s  a fairy  prince,  and  every  tale  is  true. 


36 


THE  DREAM-CHILD’S  INVITATION 


IV 

There  the  sword  Excalibur  is  thrust  into  the  dragon’s  throat, 
Evil  there  is  evil,  black  is  black,  and  white  is  white : 

There  the  child  triumphant  hurls  the  villain  spluttering  into 
the  moat; 

There  the  captured  princess  only  waits  the  peerless  knight. 


V 

Fairyland  is  gleaming  there  beyond  the  Sherwood  Forest 
trees, 

There  the  City  of  the  Clouds  has  anchored  on  the  plain 
All  her  misty  vistas  and  slumber-rosy  palaces 

(Shall  we  not , ah,  shall  we  not,  wander  there  again f) 


VI 

“ Happy  ever  after”  there,  the  lights  of  home  a welcome  fling 
Softly  thro’  the  darkness  as  the  star  that  shone  of  old, 
Softly  over  Bethlehem  and  o’er  the  little  cradled  King 

Whom  the  sages  worshipped  with  their  frankincense  and 
gold. 


VII 

Once  upon  a time — perhaps  a hundred  thousand  years  ago — 
Whisper  to  me,  Peterkin,  I have  forgotten  when! 

Once  upon  a time  there  was  a way,  a way  we  used  to  know 
For  stealing  off  at  twilight  from  the  weary  ways  of  men. 


VIII 

Whisper  it,  0 whisper  it — the  way,  the  way  is  all  I need ! 

All  the  heart  and  will  are  here  and  all  the  deep  desire! 
Once  upon  a time — ah,  now  the  light  is  drawing  near  indeed, 
I see  the  fairy  faces  flush  to  roses  round  the  fire. 


THE  TRAMP  TRANSFIGURED 


37 


IX 

Once  upon  a time — the  little  lips  are  on  my  cheek  again, 

Little  fairy  fingers  clasped  and  clinging  draw  me  nigh, 
Dreams,  no  more  than  dreams,  but  they  unloose  the  weary 
prisoner’s  chain 

And  lead  him  from  his  dungeon!  “ What’s  a thousand 
years?”  they  cry. 


X 

A thousand  years,  a thousand  years,  a little  drifting  dream  ago, 
Ail  of  us  were  hunting  with  a band  of  merry  men, 

The  skies  were  blue,  the  boughs  were  green,  the  clouds  were 
crisping  isles  of  snow  . . . 

...  So  Robin  blew  his  bugle,  and  the  Now  became  the 
Then. 


THE  TRAMP  TRANSFIGURED 

(an  episode  in  the  life  of  a corn-flower  millionaire) 

I 

All  the  way  to  Fairyland  across  the  thyme  and  heather, 
Round  a little  bank  of  fern  that  rustled  on  the  sky, 

Me  and  stick  and  bundle,  sir,  we  jogged  along  together, — 
(Changeable  the  weather?  Well — it  ain’t  all  pie!) 

Just  about  the  sunset — Won’t  you  listen  to  my  story? — 

Look  at  me!  I’m  only  rags  and  tatters  to  your  eye! 

Sir,  that  blooming  sunset  crowned  this  battered  hat  with  glory! 
Me  that  was  a crawling  worm  became  a butterfly — 

(Ain’t  it  hot  and  dry? 

Thank  you,  sir,  thank  you,  sir!)  a blooming  butterfly. 

II 

Weil,  it  happened  this  way!  I was  lying  loose  and  lazy, 

Just  as,  of  a Sunday,  you  yourself  might  think  no  shame, 
Puffing  little  clouds  of  smoke,  and  picking  at  a daisy, 

Dreaming  of  your  dinner,  p’raps,  or  wishful  for  the  same: 


38 


THE  TRAMP  TRANSFIGURED 


Suddenly,  around  that  ferny  bank  there  slowly  waddled — 
Slowly  as  the  finger  of  a clock  her  shadow  came — 
Slowly  as  a tortoise  down  that  winding  path  she  toddled, 
Leaning  on  a crooked  staff,  a poor  old  crooked  dame, 
Limping,  but  not  lame, 

Tick , tacky  tick , tacky  a poor  old  crooked  dame. 


Ill 

Slowly  did  I say,  sir?  Well,  you’ve  heard  that  funny  fable 
Consekint  the  tortoise  and  the  race  it  give  an  ’are? 

This  was  curiouser  than  that!  At  first  I wasn’t  able 
Quite  to  size  the  memory  up  that  bristled  thro’  my  hair: 
Suddenly,  I’d  got  it;  with  a nasty  shivery  feeling, 

While  she  walked  and  walked  and  yet  was  not  a bit  more 
near, — 

Sir,  it  was  the  tread-mill  earth  beneath  her  feet  a-wheeling 
Faster  than  her  feet  could  trot  to  heaven  or  anywhere, 
Earth’s  revolvin’  stair 

Wheeling,  while  my  wayside  clump  was  kind  of  anchored 
there. 


IV 

Tick,  tack,  tick,  tack,  and  just  a little  nearer, 

Inch  and  ’arf  an  inch  she  went,  but  never  gained  a yard : 
Quiet  as  a fox  I lay;  I didn’t  wish  to  scare  ’er, 

Watching  thro’  the  ferns,  and  thinking  “What  a ruin  old 
card!” 

Both  her  wrinkled  tortoise  eyes  with  yellow  resin  oozing, 

Both  her  poor  old  bony  hands  were  red  and  seamed  and 
scarred ! 

Lord,  I felt  as  if  myself  was  in  a public  boozing, 

While  my  own  old  woman  went  about  and  scrubbed  and 
charred ! 

Lord,  it  seemed  so  hard! 

Tick , tack,  tick,  tack,  she  never  gained  a yard. 


THE  TRAMP  TRANSFIGURED 


39 


V 

Yus,  and  there  in  front  of  her — I hadn't  seen  it  rightly — 
Lurked  that  little  finger-post  to  point  another  road, 

Just  a tiny  path  of  poppies  twisting  infi-nite-ly 

Through  the  whispering  seas  of  wheat,  a scarlet  thread  that 
showed 

White  with  ox-eye  daisies  here  and  there  and  chalky  cobbles, 
Blue  with  waving  corn-flowers:  far  and  far  away  it  glowed, 
Winding  into  heaven,  I thinks;  but,  Lord,  the  way  she  hobbles, 
Lord,  she'll  never  reach  it,  for  she  bears  too  great  a load; 
Yus,  and  then  I knowed, 

If  she  did,  she  couldn't,  for  the  board  was  marked  No  Road . 


VI 

Tick , tack , tick , tack , I couldn't  wait  no  longer! 

Up  I gets  and  bows  polite  and  pleasant  as  a toff — 

“ Arternoon,"  I says,  “I'm  glad  your  boots  are  going  stronger; 

Only  thing  I'm  dreading  is  your  feet  'ull  both  come  off." 
Tick,  tack , tick , tack , she  didn't  stop  to  answer, 

“Arternoon,"  she  says,  and  sort  o'  chokes  a little  cough, 

“I  must  get  to  Piddinghoe  to-morrow  if  I can,  sir!" 

“Demme,  my  good  woman!  Haw!  Don't  think  I mean  to 
loff," 

Says  I,  like  a toff, 

“ Where  d'you  mean  to  sleep  to-night?  God  made  this  grass 
for  go'ff." 


VII 


Tick,  tack,  tick , tack , and  smilingly  she  eyed  me 

(Dreadful  the  low  cunning  of  these  creechars,  don't  you 
think?) 

“That's  all  right!  The  weather's  bright.  Them  bushes  there 
'ull  hide  me. 

Don't  the  gorse  smell  nice?"  I felt  my  denied  old  eyelids 
blink! 


40 


THE  TRAMP  TRANSFIGURED 


“ Supper?  Eve  a crust  of  bread,  a big  one,  and  a bottle,” 
(Just  as  I expected!  Ah,  these  creechars  always  drink!) 

4 4 Sugar  and  water  and  half  a pinch  of  tea  to  rinse  my  throttle, 
Then  I’ll  curl  up  cosy!” — '“If  you’re  cotched  it  means  the 
clink!” 

— “ Yus,  but  don’t  you  think 

If  a star  should  see  me,  God  ’ull  tell  that  star  to  wink?” 


VIII 

“Now,  look  here,”  I says,  “I  don’t  know  what  your  blooming 
age  is!” 

“Three-score  years  and  five,”  she  says,  “that’s  five  more 
years  to  go 

Tick , tack , tick  tack , before  I gets  my  wages!” 

“Wages  all  be  damned,”  I says,  “there’s  one  thing  that  I 

know — 

Gals  that  stay  out  late  o’  nights  are  sure  to  meet  wi’  sorrow. 

Speaking  as  a toff,”  I says,  “it  isn’t  comme  il  faut! 

Tell  me  why  you  want  to  get  to  Piddinghoe  to-morrow.” — 
“That  was  where  my  son  worked,  twenty  years  ago!” — 
“Twenty  years  ago? 

Never  wrote?  May  still  be  there?  Remember  you? 
. * . Just  so!” 


IX 

Yus,  it  w*as  a drama;  but  she  weren’t  my  long-lost  parent! 

Tick , tack,  tick , tack , she  trotted  all  the  while, 

Never  getting  forrarder,  and  not  the  least  aware  on’t, 

Though  I stood  beside  her  with  a sort  of  silly  smile 
Stock-still ! Tick , tack!  This  blooming  world’s  a bubble : 
There  I stood  and  stared  at  it,  mile  on  flowery  mile, 
Chasing  o’  the  sunset. — “Gals  are  sure  to  meet  wi’  trouble 
Staying  out  o’  nights,”  I says,  once  more,  and  tries  to  smile, 
“Come,  that  ain’t  your  style, 

Here’s  a shilling,  mother,  for  to-day  I’ve  made  my  pile!” 


THE  TRAMP  TRANSFIGURED 


41 


X 

Yus,  a dozen  coppers,  all  my  capital,  it  fled,  sir, 

Representin'  twelve  bokays  that  cost  me  nothink  each, 
Twelve  bokays  o'  corn-flowers  blue  that  grew  beside  my  bed, 
sir, 

That  same  day,  at  sunrise,  when  the  sky  was  like  a peach : 
Easy  as  a poet's  dreams  they  blossomed  round  my  head,  sir, 

All  I had  to  do  was  just  to  lift  my  hand  and  reach: 

So,  upon  the  roaring  waves  I cast  my  blooming  bread,  sir, 
Bread  I'd  earned  with  nose-gays  on  the  bare-foot  Brighton 
beach, 

Nose-gays  and  a speech, 

All  about  the  bright  blue  eyes  they  matched  on  Brighton 
beach. 


XI 

Still,  you've  only  got  to  hear  the  bankers  on  the  budget, 

Then  you'll  know  the  giving  game  is  hardly  “high  finance"; 
Which  no  more  it  wasn't  for  that  poor  old  dame  to  trudge  it, 
Tick , tack , tick , tack , on  such  a devil's  dance : 

Crumbs,  it  took  me  quite  aback  to  see  her  stop  so  humble, 
Casting  up  into  my  face  a sort  of  shiny  glance, 

Bless  you , bless  you , that  was  what  I thought  I heard  her 
mumble ; 

Lord,  a prayer  for  poor  old  Bill,  a rummy  sort  of  chance! 
Crumbs,  that  shiny  glance 

Kinder  made  me  king  of  all  the  sky  from  here  to  France. 


XII 

Tick , tack , tick , tack , but  now  she  toddled  faster: 

Soon  she'd  reach  the  little  twisted  by-way  through  the  wheat. 
“Look  'ee  here,"  I says,  “young  woman,  don't  you  court 
disaster! 

Peepin'  through  yon  poppies  there's  a cottage  trim  and  neat 


42 


THE  TRAMP  TRANSFIGURED 


White  as  chalk  and  sweet  as  turf : wot  price  a bed  for  sorrow, 
Sprigs  of  lavender  between  the  pillow  and  the  sheet?” 
“No,”  she  says,  “Eve  got  to  get  to  Piddinghoe  to-morrow! 
P’raps  they’d  tell  the  work’us!  And  I’ve  lashings  here  to 
eat: 

Don’t  the  gorse  smell  sweet?”  . . . 

Well,  I turned  and  left  her  plodding  on  beside  the  wheat. 


XIII 

Every  cent  I’d  given  her  like  a hero  in  a story; 

Yet,  alone  with  leagues  of  wheat  I seemed  to  grow  aware 

Solomon  himself,  arrayed  in  all  his  golden  glory, 

Couldn’t  vie  with  Me,  the  corn-flower  king,  the  millionaire! 

How  to  cash  those  bright  blue  cheques  that  night?  My 
trouser  pockets 

Jingled  sudden!  Six  more  pennies,  crept  from  James  knew 
where! 

Crumbs!  I hurried  back  with  eyes  just  bulging  from  their 
sockets, 

Pushed  ’em  in  the  old  dame’s  fist  and  listened  for  the  prayer, 
Shamming  not  to  care, 

Bill — the  blarsted  chicken-thief,  the  corn-flower  millionaire. 


XIV 

Tick,  tack , tick , tack , and  faster  yet  she  clattered! 

Ay,  she’d  almost  gained  a yard!  I left  her  once  again. 
Feeling  very  warm  inside  and  sort  of  ’ighly  flattered, 

On  I plodded,  all  alone,  with  hay-stacks  in  my  brain. 
Suddenly,  with  chink — chink — chink , the  old  sweet  jingle 
Startled  me!  ’Twas  THRUPrENCE  more!  Three  coppers 
round  and  plain! 

Lord,  temptation  struck  me  and  I felt  my  gullet  tingle. 

Then — I hurried  back,  beside  them  seas  of  golden  grain: 

No,  I can’t  explain; 

There  I thrust  ’em  in  her  fist,  and  left  her  once  again. 


THE  TRAMP  TRANSFIGURED 


43 


XV 

Tinkle-chink!  Three  ha’pence!  If  the  vulgar  fractions 
followed, 

Big  fleas  have  little  fleas!  It  flashed  upon  me  there, — 

Like  the  snakes  of  Pharaoh  which  the  snakes  of  Moses 
swallowed 

All  the  world  was  playing  at  the  tortoise  and  the  hare: 

Half  the  smallest  atom  is — my  soul  was  getting  tipsy — 
Heaven  is  one  big  circle  and  the  centre’s  everywhere, 

Yus,  and  that  old  woman  was  an  angel  and  a gipsy, 

Yus,  and  Bill,  the  chicken-thief,  the  corn-flower  millionaire, 
Shamming  not  to  care, 

What  was  he?  A seraph  on  the  misty  rainbow-stair! 

XVI 

Don’t  you  make  no  doubt  of  it!  The  deeper  that  you  look, 
sir, 

All  your  ancient  poets  tell  you  just  the  same  as  me, — 

What  about  old  Ovid  and  his  most  indecent  book,  sir, 
Morphosizing  females  into  flower  and  star  and  tree? 

What  about  old  Proteus  and  his  ’ighly  curious  ’abits, 

Mixing  of  his  old  grey  beard  into  the  old  grey  sea? 

What  about  old  Darwin  and  the  hat  that  brought  forth 
rabbits, 

Mud  and  slime  that  growed  into  the  pomp  of  Ninevey? 
What  if  there  should  be 

One  great  Power  beneath  it  all,  one  God  in  you  and  me? 


XVII 

Anyway,  it  seemed  to  me  I’d  struck  the  world’s  pump-handle! 
“Back  with  that  three  ha’pence,  Bill,”  I mutters,  “or 
you’re  lost.” 

Back  I hurries  thro’  the  dusk  where,  shining  like  a candle, 
Pale  before  the  sunset  stood  that  fairy  finger-post. 

Sir , she  wasn't  there!  I’d  struck  the  place  where  all  roads 
crost, 

All  the  roads  in  all  the  world. 


44 


THE  TRAMP  TRANSFIGURED 


She  couldn't  yet  have  trotted 
Even  to  the  . . . Hist!  a stealthy  step  behind?  A 
ghost? 

Swish!  A flying  noose  had  caught  me  round  the  neck! 
Garotted! 

Back  I staggered,  clutching  at  the  moonbeams,  yus,  almost 
Throttled!  Sir,  I boast 

Bill  is  tough,  but  . . . when  it  comes  to  throttling  by  a 
ghost ! 


XVIII 

Winged  like  a butterfly,  tall  and  slender 
Out  It  steps  with  the  rope  on  its  arm. 

“ Crumbs,"  I says,  “all  right!  I surrender! 

When  have  I crossed  you  or  done  you  harm? 

Ef  you're  a sperrit,"  I says,  “O,  crikey, 

Ef  you're  a sperrit,  get  hence,  vamoose!" 

Sweet  as  music,  she  spoke — “I'm  Psyche!" — 

Choking  me  still  with  her  silken  noose. 

XIX 

Straight  at  the  word  from  the  ferns  and  blossoms 
Fretting  the  moon-rise  over  the  downs, 

Little  blue  wings  and  little  white  bosoms, 

Little  white  faces  with  golden  crowns 
Peeped,  and  the  colours  came  twinkling  round  me, 
Laughed,  and  the  turf  grew  purple  with  thyme, 
Danced,  and  the  sweet  crushed  scents  nigh  drowned  me, 
Sang,  and  the  hare-bells  rang  in  chime. 

XX 

All  around  me,  gliding  and  gleaming, 

Fair  as  a fallen  sunset-sky, 

Butterfly  wings  came  drifting,  dreaming, 

Clouds  of  the  little  folk  clustered  nigh, 

Little  white  hands  like  pearls  uplifted 
Cords  of  silk  in  shimmering  skeins, 

Cast  them  about  me  and  dreamily  drifted 

Winding  me  round  with  their  soft  warm  chains. 


THE  TRAMP  TRANSFIGURED 


45 


XXI 

Round  and  round  me  they  dizzily  floated, 

Binding  me  faster  with  every  turn: 

Crumbs,  my  pals  would  have  grinned  and  gloated 
Watching  me  over  that  fringe  of  fern, 

Bill,  with  his  battered  old  hat  outstanding 
Black  as  a foam-swept  rock  to  the  moon, 

Bill,  like  a rainbow  of  silks  expanding 
Into  a beautiful  big  cocoon, — 

XXII 

Big  as  a cloud,  though  his  hat  still  crowned  him, 
Yus,  and  his  old  boots  bulged  below: 

Seas  of  colour  went  shimmering  round  him, 
Dancing,  glimmering,  glancing  a-glow! 

Bill  knew  well  what  them  elves  were  at,  sir, — 
Ain't  you  an  en-to-mol-o-gist? 

Well,  despite  of  his  old  black  hat,  sir, 

Bill  was  becoming — a chrysalist. 


XXIII 

Muffled,  smothered  in  a sea  of  emerald  and  opal, 

Down  a dazzling  gulf  of  dreams  I sank  and  sank  away, 
Wound  about  with  twenty  thousand  yards  of  silken  rope,  all 
Shimmering  into  crimson,  glimmering  into  grey, 

Drowsing,  waking,  living,  dying,  just  as  you  regards  it, 

Buried  in  a sunset-cloud,  or  cloud  of  breaking  day, 

'Cording  as  from  East  or  West  yourself  might  look  towards  it, 
Losing,  gaining,  lost  in  darkness,  ragged,  grimy,  gay, 
'And-cuffed,  not  to  say 

Gagged,  but  both  my  shoulders  budding,  sprouting  white  as 
May. 


XXIV 

Sprouting  like  the  milky  buds  o'  hawthorn  in  the  night-time, 
Pouting  like  the  snowy  buds  o'  roses  in  July, 

Spreading  in  my  chrysalist  and  waiting  for  the  right  time, 
When — I thought — they'd  bust  to  wings  and  Bill  would  rise 
and  fly, 


46 


THE  TRAMP  TRANSFIGURED 


Tick , tack,  tick,  tack,  as  if  it  came  in  answer, 

Sweeping  o'er  my  head  again  the  tide  o'  dreams  went  by, — 
I must  get  to  Piddinghoe  to-morrow  if  I can , sir, 

Tick , tack,  a crackle  in  my  chrysalist,  a cry! 

Then  the  warm  blue  sky 

Bust  the  shell,  and  out  crept  Bill — a blooming  butterfly! 


XXV 

Blue  as  a corn-flower,  blazed  the  zenith:  the  deepening  East 
like  a scarlet  poppy 

Burned  while,  dazzled  with  golden  bloom,  white  clouds  like 
daisies,  green  seas  like  wheat, 

Gripping  the  sign-post,  first,  I climbs,  to  sun  my  wings,  which 
were  wrinkled  and  floppy, 

Spreading  'em  white  o'er  the  words  No  Road,  and  hanging 
fast  by  my  six  black  feet. 

XXVI 

Still  on  my  head  was  the  battered  old  beaver,  but  through  it 
my  clubbed  antennae  slanted, 

(“ Feelers"  yourself  would  probably  call  'em)  my  battered 
old  boots  were  hardly  seen 

Under  the  golden  fluff  of  the  tail!  It  was  Bill,  sir,  Bill,  though 
highly  enchanted, 

Spreading  his  beautiful  snow-white  pinions,  tipped  with 
orange,  and  veined  with  green. 

XXVII 

Yus,  old  Bill  was  an  Orange-tip,  a spirit  in  glory,  a blooming 
Psyche! 

New,  it  was  new  from  East  to  West  this  rummy  old  world 
that  I dreamed  I knew, 

How  can  I tell  you  the  things  that  I saw  with  my — what  shall 
I call  'em? — “ feelers?" — 0,  crikey, 

“Feelers?"  You  know  how  the  man  born  blind  described 
such  colours  as  scarlet  or  blue. 


THE  TRAMP  TRANSFIGURED 


47 


XXVIII 

“ Scarlet, ” he  says,  “is  the  sound  of  a trumpet,  blue  is  a flute, ” 
for  he  hasn’t  a notion! 

No,  nor  nobody  living  on  earth  can  tell  it  him  plain,  if  he 
hasn’t  the  sight! 

That’s  how  it  stands  with  ragged  old  Bill,  a-drift  and  a-dream 
on  a measureless  ocean, 

Gifted  wi’  fifteen  new-born  senses,  and  seeing  you  blind  to 
their  new  strange  light. 

XXIX 

How  can  I tell  you?  Sir,  you  must  wait,  till  you  die  like  Bill, 
ere  you  understand  it! 

Only — I saw — the  same  as  a bee  that  strikes  to  his  hive  ten 
leagues  away — 

Straight  as  a die,  while  I winked  and  blinked  on  that  sun- 
warmed  wood  and  my  wings  expanded 

(Whistler  drawings  that  men  call  wings) — I saw — and  I flew 
— that’s  all  I can  say. 

XXX 

Flew  over  leagues  of  whispering  wonder,  fairy  forests  and 
flowery  palaces, 

Love-lorn  casements,  delicate  kingdoms,  beautiful  flaming 
thoughts  of — Him; 

Feasts  of  a million  blue-mailed  angels  lifting  their  honey-and- 
wine-brimmed  chalices, 

Throned  upon  clouds — (which  you’d  call  white  clover)  down 
to  the  world’s  most  rosiest  rim. 

XXXI 

New  and  new  and  new  and  new,  the  white  o’  the  cliffs  and  the 
wind  in  the  heather, 

Yus,  and  the  sea-gulls  flying  like  flakes  of  the  sea  that  flashed 
to  the  new-born  day, 

Song,  song,  song,  song,  quivering  up  in  the  wild  blue  weather, 

Thousands  of  seraphim  singing  together,  and  me  just  flying 
and — knowing  my  way . 


48 


THE  TRAMP  TRANSFIGURED 


# XXXII 


Straight  as  a die  to  Piddinghoe’s  dolphin,  and  there  I drops 
in  a cottage  garden, 

There,  on  a sun-warmed  window-sill,  I winks  and  peeps,  for 
the  window  was  wide! 

Crumbs,  he  was  there  and  fast  in  her  arms  and  a-begging  his 
poor  old  mother’s  pardon, 

There  with  his  lips  on  her  old  grey  hair,  and  her  head  on 
his  breast  while  she  laughed  and  cried,— 


XXXIII 

“ One  and  nine-pence  that  old  tramp  gave  me,  or  else  I should 
never  have  reached  you , sonny , 

Never , and  you  just  leaving  the  village  to-day  and  meaning  to 
cross  the  sea , 

One  and  nine-pence  he  gave  me,  I paid  for  the  farmer’s  lift  with 
half  o’  the  money! 

Here’s  the  ten-pence  halfpenny,  sonny , ’twill  pay  for  our  little 
’ ouse-warming  tea.” 


XXXIV 

Tick,  tack,  tick , tack , out  into  the  garden 
Toddles  that  old  Fairy  with  his  arm  about  her — so, 
Cuddling  of  her  still,  and  still  a-begging  of  her  pardon, 
While  she  says  “I  wish  the  corn-flower  king  could  only 
know! 

Bless  him,  bless  him,  once  again,”  she  says  and  softly  gazes 
Up  to  heaven,  a-smiling  in  her  mutch  as  white  as  snow, 
All  among  her  gilly-flowers  and  stocks  and  double  daisies, 
Mignonette,  forget-me-not,  . . . Twenty  years  ago, 

All  a rosy  glow, 

This  is  how  it  was,  she  said,  Twenty  years  ago. 


THE  TRAMP  TRANSFIGURED 


Once  again  I seemed  to  wake,  the  vision  it  had  fled,  sir, 

There  I lay  upon  the  downs:  the  sky  was  like  a peach; 

Yus,  with  twelve  bokays  of  corn-flowers  blue  beside  my  bed, 
sir, 

More  than  usual  'andsome,  so  they'd  bring  me  two-pence 
each. 

Easy  as  a poet's  dreams  they  blossomed  round  my  head,  sir, 

All  I had  to  do  was  just  to  lift  my  hand  and  reach, 

Tie  'em  with  a bit  of  string,  and  earn  my  blooming  bread, 
sir, 

Selling  little  nose-gays  on  the  bare-foot  Brighton  beach, 
Nose-gays  and  a speech, 

All  about  the  bright  blue  eyes  they  matched  on  Brighton 
beach. 


XXXVI 

Overhead  the  singing  lark  and  underfoot  the  heather, 

Far  and  blue  in  front  of  us  the  unplumbed  sky, 

Me  and  stick  and  bundle,  O,  we  jogs  along  together, 
(Changeable  the  weather?  Well,  it  ain't  all  pie!) 
Weather's  like  a woman,  sir,  and  if  she  wants  to  quarrel, 

If  her  eyes  begin  to  flash  and  hair  begins  to  fly, 

You've  to  wait  a little,  then — the  story  has  a moral — 

Ain’t  the  sunny  kisses  all  the  sweeter  by  and  bye? — 
(Crumbs,  it's  'ot  and  dry! 

Thank  you,  sir!  Thank  you,  sir!)  the  sweeter  by  and  bye. 


XXXVII 

So  the  world's  my  sweetheart  and  I sort  of  want  to  squeeze  'er. 
Toffs  'ull  get  no  chance  of  heaven,  take  'em  in  the  lump! 
Never  laid  in  hay-fields  when  the  dawn  came  over-sea,  sir? 
Guess  it's  true  that  story  'bout  the  needle  and  the  hump! 

4 


50 


ON  THE  DOWNS 


Never  crept  into  a stack  because  the  wind  was  blowing, 
Hollered  out  a nest  and  closed  the  door-way  with  a clump, 
Laid  and  heard  the  whisper  of  the  silence,  growing,  growing, 
Watched  a thousand  wheeling  stars  and  wondered  if  they'd 
bump? 

What  I say  would  stump 

Joshua!  But  I’ve  done  it,  sir.  Don’t  think  I’m  off  my 
chump. 


XXXVIII 

If  you  try  and  lay,  sir,  with  your  face  turned  up  to  wonder, 
Up  to  twenty  million  miles  of  stars  that  roll  like  one, 

Right  across  to  God  knows  where,  and  you  just  huddled  under 
Like  a little  beetle  with  no  business  of  his  own, 

There  you’d  hear — like  growing  grass — a funny  silent  sound, 
sir, 

Mixed  with  curious  crackles  in  a steady  undertone, 

Just  the  sound  of  twenty  billion  stars  a-going  round,  sir, 

Yus,  and  you  beneath  ’em  like  a wise  old  ant,  alone, 

Ant  upon  a stone, 

Waving  of  his  antlers,  on  the  Sussex  downs,  alone. 


ON  THE  DOWNS 

Wide-eyed  our  childhood  roamed  the  world 
Knee-deep  in  blowing  grass, 

And  watched  the  white  clouds  crisply  curled 
Above  the  mountain-pass, 

And  lay  among  the  purple  thyme 
And  from  its  fragrance  caught 
Strange  hints  from  some  elusive  clime 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  thought. 

Glimpses  of  fair  forgotten  things 
Beyond  the  gates  of  birth, 

Half-caught  from  far  off  ancient  springs 
In  heaven,  and  half  of  earth; 


ON  THE  DOWNS 


5i 


And  coloured  like  a fairy-tale 
And  whispering  evermore 
Half  memories  from  the  half-fenced  pale 
Of  lives  we  lived  before. 

Here,  weary  of  the  roaring  town 
A- while  may  I return 
And  while  the  west  wind  roams  the  down 
Lie  still,  lie  still  and  learn : 

Here  are  green  leagues  of  murmuring  wheat 
With  blue  skies  overhead, 

And,  all  around,  the  winds  are  sweet 
With  May-bloom,  white  and  red. 

And,  to  and  fro,  the  bee  still  hums 
His  low  unchanging  song, 

And  the  same  rustling  whisper  comes 
As  through  the  ages  long: 

Through  all  the  thousands  of  the  years 
That  same  sweet  rumour  flows, 

With  dreaming  skies  and  gleaming  tears 
And  kisses  and  the  rose. 

Once  more  the  children  throng  the  lanes, 
Themselves  like  flowers,  to  weave 
Their  garlands  and  their  daisy-chains 
And  listen  and  believe 
The  tale  of  Once-upon-a-time , 

And  hear  the  Long-ago 
And  Happy-ever-after  chime 
Because  it  must  be  so. 

And  by  those  thousands  of  the  years 
It  is,  though  scarce  we  see, 

Dazed  with  the  rainbows  of  our  tears, 

Their  steadfast  unity, 

It  is,  or  life’s  disjointed  schemes, 

These  stones,  these  ferns  unfurled 
With  such  deep  care — a madman’s  dreams 
Were  wisdom  to  this  world! 


52 


A MAY-DAY  CAROL 


Dust  into  dust!  Lie  still  and  learn, 
Hear  how  the  ages  sing 
The  solemn  joy  of  our  return 
To  that  which  makes  the  Spring: 

Even  as  we  came,  with  childhood's  trust, 
Wide-eyed  we  go,  to  Thee 
Who  holdest  in  Thy  sacred  dust 
The  heavenly  Springs  to  be. 


A MAY-DAY  CAROL 

What  is  the  loveliest  light  that  Spring 
Rosily  parting  her  robe  of  grey 
Girdled  with  leaflet  green,  can  fling 
Over  the  fields  where  her  white  feet  stray? 

What  is  the  merriest  promise  of  May 

Flung  o'er  the  dew-drenched  April  flowers? 

Tell  me,  you  on  the  pear-tree  spray- — 

Carol  of  birds  between  the  showers . 

What  can  life  at  its  lightest  bring 
Better  than  this  on  its  brightest  day? 

How  should  we  fetter  the  white-throat's  wing 
Wild  with  joy  of  its  woodland  way? 

Sweet,  should  love  for  an  hour  delay, 

Swift,  while  the  primrose-time  is  ours! 

What  is  the  lover's  royallest  lay? — 

Carol  of  birds  between  the  showers . 

What  is  the  murmur  of  bees  a-swing? 

What  is  the  laugh  of  a child  at  play? 

What  is  the  song  that  the  angels  sing? 

(Where  were  the  tune  could  the  sweet  notes  stay 
Longer  than  this,  to  kiss  and  betray?) 

Nay,  on  the  blue  sky's  topmost  towers, 

What  is  the  song  of  the  seraphim?  Say — 

Carol  of  birds  between  the  showers . 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  SPRING 

Thread  the  stars  on  a silver  string, 

(So  did  they  sing  in  Bethlehem's  bowers!) 
Mirth  for  a little  one,  grief  for  a king, 

Carol  of  birds  between  the  showers . 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  SPRING 

Come,  choose  your  road  and  away,  my  lad, 

Come,  choose  your  road  and  away! 

We'll  out  of  the  town  by  the  road's  bright  crown 
As  it  dips  to  the  dazzling  day. 

It's  a long  white  road  for  the  weary; 

But  it  rolls  through  the  heart  of  the  May. 

Though  many  a road  would  merrily  ring 
To  the  tramp  of  your  marching  feet, 

All  roads  are  one  from  the  day  that's  done, 

And  the  miles  are  swift  and  sweet, 

And  the  graves  of  your  friends  are  the  mile-stones 
To  the  land  where  all  roads  meet. 

But  the  call  that  you  hear  this  day,  my  lad, 

Is  the  Spring's  old  bugle  of  mirth 

When  the  year's  green  fire  in  a soul's  desire 
Is  brought  like  a rose  to  the  birth ; 

And  knights  ride  out  to  adventure 
As  the  flowers  break  out  of  the  earth. 

Over  the  sweet-smelling  mountain-passes 
The  clouds  lie  brightly  curled ; 

The  wild-flowers  cling  to  the  crags  and  swing 
With  cataract-dews  impearled; 

And  the  way,  the  way  that  you  choose  this  day 
Is  the  way  to  the  end  of  the  world. 

It  rolls  from  the  golden  long  ago 
To  the  land  that  we  ne'er  shall  find; 

And  it's  uphill  here,  but  it's  downhill  there, 

For  the  road  is  wise  and  kind, 

And  ail  rough  places  and  cheerless  faces 
Will  soon  be  left  behind. 


54 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  SPRING 


Come,  choose  your  road  and  away,  away, 

We’ll  follow  the  gipsy  sun; 

For  it’s  soon,  too  soon  to  the  end  of  the  day, 

And  the  day  is  well  begun; 

And  the  road  rolls  on  through  the  heart  of  the  May, 
And  there’s  never  a May  but  one. 


There’s  a fir-wood  here,  and  a dog-rose  there, 
And  a note  of  the  mating  dove; 

And  a glimpse,  maybe,  of  the  warm  blue  sea, 
And  the  warm  white  clouds  above; 

And  warm  to  your  breast  in  a tenderer  nest 
Your  sweetheart’s  little  glove. 


There’s  not  much  better  to  win,  my  lad, 

There’s  not  much  better  to  win! 

You  have  lived,  you  have  loved,  you  have  fought,  you 
have  proved 

The  worth  of  folly  and  sin; 

So  now  come  out  of  the  City’s  rout, 

Come  out  of  the  dust  and  the  din. 


Come  out, — a bundle  and  stick  is  all 
You’ll  need  to  carry  along, 

If  your  heart  can  carry  a kindly  word, 

And  your  lips  can  carry  a song; 

You  may  leave  the  lave  to  the  keep  o’  the  grave, 
If  your  lips  can  carry  a song! 


Come , choose  your  road  and  away , my  lady 
Come,  choose  your  road  and  away ! 

We’ll  out  of  the  town  by  the  roadcs  bright  crown , 
As  it  dips  to  the  sapphire  day! 

All  roads  may  meet  at  the  world’s  end, 

But , hey  for  the  heart  of  the  May! 

Come,  choose  your  road  and  away,  dear  lad, 
Come  choose  your  road  and  away. 


A DEVONSHIRE  DITTY 


53 


A DEVONSHIRE  DITTY 

I 


In  a leafy  lane  of  Devon 

There’s  a cottaige  that  I know, 

Then  a garden — then,  a grey  old  crumbling  wall. 
And  the  wall’s  the  wall  of  heaven 
(Where  I hardly  care  to  go) 

And  there  isn’t  any  fiery  sword  at  all. 

II 

But  I never  went  to  heaven. 

There  was  right  good  reason  why, 

For  they  sent  a shining  angel  to  me  there 
An  angel,  down  in  Devon, 

(Clad  in  muslin  by  the  bye) 

With  the  halo  of  the  sunshine  on  her  hair. 

III 

Ah,  whate’er  the  darkness  covers, 

And  whate’er  we  sing  or  say, 

Would  you  climb  the  wall  of  heaven  an  hour  too 
soon 

If  you  knew  a place  for  lovers 
Where  the  apple-blossoms  stray 

Out  of  heaven  to  sway  and  whisper  to  the  moon? 

IV 

When  we  die — -we’ll  think  of  Devon 
Where  the  garden’s  all  aglow 

With  the  flowers  that  stray  across  the  grey  old 
wall: 

Then  we’ll  climb  ft,  out  of  heaven, 

From  the  other  side,  you  know, 

Straggle  over  it  from  heaven 
With  the  apple-blossom  snow, 

Tumble  back  again  to  Devon 
Laugh  and  love  as  long  ago, 

Where  there  isn’t  any  fiery  sword  at  all. 


56  BACCHUS  AND  THE  PIRATES 

BACCHUS  AND  THE  PIRATES 

Half  a hundred  terrible  pig-tails,  pirates  famous  in  song  and 
# story, 

Hoisting  the  old  black  flag  once  more,  in  a palmy  harbour  of 
Caribbee, 

“ Farewell  ” we  waved  to  our  brown-skinned  lasses,  and  chorus- 
sing out  to  the  billows  of  glory, 

Billows  a-glitter  with  rum  and  gold,  we  followed  the  sunset 
over  the  sea. 


While  earth  goes  round , let  rum  go  round., 

Our  capstan  song  we  sung: 

Half  a hundred  broadr-sheet  pirates 
f When  the  world  was  young! 

Sea-roads  plated  with  pieces  of  eight  that  rolled  to  a heaven 
by  rum  made  mellow, 

Heaved  and  coloured  our  barque’s  black  nose  where  the 
Lascar  sang  to  a twinkling  star, 

And  the  tangled  bow-sprit  plunged  and  dipped  its  point  in 
the  west’s  wild  red  and  yellow, 

Till  the  curved  white  moon  crept  out  astern  like  a naked 
knife  from  a blue  cymar. 

While  earth  goes  round , let  rum  go  round , 

Our  capstan  song  we  sung: 

Half  a hundred  terrible  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

Half  a hundred  tarry  pig-tails,  Teach,  the  chewer  of  glass,  had 
taught  us, 

Taught  us  to  balance  the  plank  ye  walk,  your  little  plank- 
bridge  to  Kingdom  Come: 

Half  a score  had  sailed  with  Flint,  and  a dozen  or  so  the  devil 
had  brought  us 

Back  from  the  pit  where  Blackbeard  lay,  in  Beelzebub’s 
bosom,  a-screech  for  rum. 


BACCHUS  AND  THE  PIRATES 


ST 


While  earth  goes  round , let  rum  go  round , 

Our  capstan  song  we  sung: 

Half  a hundred  piping  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

There  was  Captain  Hook  (of  whom  ye  have  heard — so  called 
from  his  terrible  cold  steel  twister, 

His  own  right  hand  having  gone  to  a shark  with  a taste  for 
skippers  on  pirate-trips), 

There  wras  Silver  himself,  with  his  cruel  crutch,  and  the  blind 
man  Pew,  with  a phiz  like  a blister, 

Gouged  and  white  and  dreadfully  dried  in  the  reek  of  a 
thousand  burning  ships. 

While  earth  goes  round , let  rum  go  round } 

Our  capstan  song  we  sung: 

Half  a hundred  cut-throat  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

With  our  silver  buckles  and  French  cocked  hats  and  our 
skirted  coats  (they  were  growing  greener, 

But  green  and  gold  look  well  when  spliced!  We’d  trimmed 
’em  up  wi’  some  fine  fresh  lace) 

Bravely  over  the  seas  we  danced  to  the  horn-pipe  tune  of  a 
concertina, 

Cutlasses  jetting  beneath  our  skirts  and  cambric  handker- 
chiefs all  in  place. 

While  earth  goes  round , Id  rum  go  round , 

Our  capstan  song  we  sung: 

Half  a hundred  elegant  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

And  our  black  prow  grated,  one  golden  noon,  on  the  happiest 
isle  of  the  Happy  Islands, 

An  isle  of  Paradise,  fair  as  a gem,  on  the  sparkling  breast 
of  the  wine-dark  deep, 

An  isle  of  blossom  and  yellow  sand,  and  enchanted  vines  on 
the  purple  highlands, 

Wi’  grapes  like  melons,  nay  clustering  suns,  a-sprawl  over 
cliffs  in  their  noonday  sleep. 


58 


BACCHUS  AND  THE  PIRATES 


While  earth  goes  round  let  rum  go  round , 

Our  capstan  song  we  sung: 

Half  a hundred  dream-struck  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young ! 

And  lo!  on  the  soft  warm  edge  of  the  sand,  where  the  sea  like 
wine  in  a golden  noggin 

Creamed,  and  the  rainbow-bubbles  clung  to  his  flame-red 
hair,  a white  youth  lay, 

Sleeping;  and  now,  as  his  drowsy  grip  relaxed,  the  cup  that 
he  squeezed  his  grog  in 

Slipped  from  his  hand  and  its  purple  dregs  were  mixed  with 
the  flames  and  flakes  of  spray. 

While  earth  goes  round , let  rum  go  round , 

Our  capstan  song  we  sung: 

Half  a hundred  diffident  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

And  we  suddenly  saw  (had  we  seen  them  before?  They  were 
coloured  like  sand  or  the  pelt  on  his  shoulders) 

His  head  was  pillowed  on  two  great  leopards,  whose  breathing 
rose  and  sank  with  his  own; 

Now  a pirate  is  bold,  but  the  vision  was  rum  and  would  call 
for  rum  in  the  best  of  beholders, 

And  it  seemed  we  had  seen  Him  before,  in  a dream,  with 
that  flame-red  hair  and  that  vine-leaf  crown. 

And  the  earth  went  round , and  the  rum  went  round , 
And  softlier  now  we  sung: 

Half  a hundred  awe-struck  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

Now  Timothy  Hook  (of  whom  ye  have  heard,  with  his  talon  of 
steel)  our  doughty  skipper, 

A man  that,  in  youth  being  brought  up  pious,  had  many  a 
book  on  his  cabin-shelf, 

Suddenly  caught  at  a comrade’s  hand  with  the  tearing  claws  of 
his  cold  steel  flipper 

And  cried,  “ Great  Thunder  and  Brimstone,  boys,  I’ve  hit  it 
at  last!  ’ Tis  Bacchus  himself” 


BACCHUS  AND  THE  PIRATES 


59 


And  the  earth  went  round , and  the  rum  went  round , 
And  never  a word  we  sung: 

Half  a hundred  tottering  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

He  flung  his  French  cocked  hat  i’  the  foam  (though  its  lace  was 
the  best  of  his  wearing  apparel) : 

We  stared  at  him — Bacchus ! The  sea  reeled  round  like  a wine- 
vat  splashing  with  purple  dreams, 

And  the  sunset-skies  were  dashed  with  blood  of  the  grape  as 
the  sun  like  a new-staved  barrel 
Flooded  the  tumbling  West  with  wine  and  spattered  the 
clouds  with  crimson  gleams. 

And  the  earth  went  round , and  our  heads  went  round% 
And  never  a word  we  sung: 

Half  a hundred  staggering  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

Down  to  the  ship  for  a fishing-net  our  crafty  Hook  sent  Silver 
leaping; 

Back  he  came  on  his  pounding  crutch,  for  all  the  world  like 
a kangaroo; 

And  we  caught  the  net  and  up  to  the  Sleeper  on  hands  and  knees 
we  all  went  creeping, 

Flung  it  across  him  and  staked  it  down!  ’Twas  the  best  of 
our  dreams  and  the  dream  was  true. 

And  the  earth  went  round , and  the  rum  went  round , 
And  loudly  now  we  sung: 

Half  a hundred  jubilant  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

We  had  caught  our  god,  and  we  got  him  aboard  ere  he  woke 
(he  was  more  than  a little  heavy)  ; 

Glittering,  beautiful,  flushed  he  lay  in  the  lurching  bows  of 
the  old  black  barque, 

As  the  sunset  died  and  the  white  moon  dawned,  and  we  saw 
on  the  island  a star-bright  bevy 
Of  naked  Bacchanals  stealing  to  watch  through  the  whisper- 
ing vines  in  the  purple  dark! 


(50 


BACCHUS  AND  THE  PIRATES 


While  earth  goes  round , let  rum  go  round , 

Our  capstan  song  we  sung : 

Half  a hundred  innocent  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

Beautiful  under  the  sailing  moon,  in  the  tangled  net,  with  the 
leopards  beside  him, 

Snared  like  a wild  young  red-lipped  merman,  wilful,  petulant, 
flushed  he  lay; 

While  Silver  and  Hook  in  their  big  sea-boots  and  their  boat- 
cloaks  guarded  and  gleefully  eyed  him, 

Thinking  what  Bacchus  might  do  for  a seaman,  like  standing 
him  drinks,  as  a man  might  say. 

While  earth  goes  round , let  rum  go  round , 

We  sailed  away  and  sung: 

Half  a hundred  fanciful  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

All  the  grog  that  ever  was  heard  of,  gods,  was  it  stowed  in  our 
sure  possession? 

0,  the  pictures  that  broached  the  skies  and  poured  their 
colours  across  our  dreams! 

0,  the  thoughts  that  tapped  the  sunset,  and  rolled  like  a great 
torchlight  procession 

Down  our  throats  in  a glory  of  glories,  a roaring  splendour  of 
golden  streams! 

And  the  earth  went  round , and  the  stars  went  round , 
As  we  hauled  the  sheets  and  sung: 

Half  a hundred  infinite  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

Beautiful,  white,  at  the  break  of  day,  He  woke  and,  the  net  in 
a smoke  dissolving, 

He  rose  like  a flame,  with  his  yellow-eyed  pards  and  his 
flame-red  hair  like  a windy  dawn, 

And  the  crew  kept  back,  respectful  like,  till  the  leopards 
advanced  with  their  eyes  revolving, 

Then  up  the  rigging  went  Silver  and  Hook,  and  the  rest  of  us 
followed  with  case-knives  drawn. 


BACCHUS  AND  THE  PIRATES 


61 


While  earth  goes  round,  let  rum  go  round , 

Our  cross-tree  song  we  sung: 

Half  a hundred  terrified  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

And  “Take  me  home  to  my  happy  island !”  he  says.  “Not 
I,”  sings  Hook,  “by  thunder; 

We’ll  take  you  home  to  a happier  isle,  our  palmy  harbour 
of  Caribbee!” 

“You  won’t!”  says  Bacchus,  and  quick  as  a dream  the  planks 
of  the  deck  just  heaved  asunder, 

And  a mighty  Vine  came  straggling  up  that  grew  from  the 
depths  of  the  wine-dark  sea. 

And  the  sea  went  round,  and  the  skies  went  round, 

As  our  cross-tree  song  we  sung: 

Half  a hundred  horrified  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

We  were  anchored  fast  as  an  oak  on  land,  and  the  branches 
clutched  and  the  tendrils  quickened, 

And  bound  us  writhing  like  snakes  to  the  spars!  Ay,  we 
hacked  with  our  knives  at  the  boughs  in  vain, 

And  Bacchus  laughed  loud  on  the  decks  below,  as  ever  the 
tough  sprays  tightened  and  thickened, 

And  the  blazing  hours  went  by,  and  we  gaped  with  thirst 
and  our  ribs  were  racked  with  pain 

And  the  skies  went  round,  and  the  sea  swam  round, 
And  we  knew  not  what  we  sung: 

Half  a hundred  lunatic  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

Bunch  upon  bunch  of  sunlike  grapes,  as  we  writhed  and 
struggled  and  raved  and  strangled, 

Bunch  upon  bunch  of  gold  and  purple  daubed  its  bloom 
on  our  baked  black  lips. 

Clustering  grapes,  0,  bigger  than  pumpkins,  just  out  of  reach 
they  bobbed  and  dangled 

Over  the  vine-entangled  sails  of  that  most  dumbfounded  of 
pirate  ships ! 


62 


BACCHUS  AND  THE  PIRATES 


And  the  sun  went  round , and  the  moon  came  round , 
And  mocked  us  where  we  hung: 

Half  a hundred  maniac  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

Over  the  waters  the  white  moon  winked  its  bruised  old  eye  at 
our  bowery  prison, 

When  suddenly  we  were  aware  of  a light  such  as  never  a 
meon  or  a ship’s  lamp  throws, 

And  a shallop  of  pearl,  like  a Nautilus  shell,  came  shimmering 
up  as  by  magic  arisen, 

With  sails  of  silk  and  a glory  around  it  that  turned  the  sea 
to  a rippling  rose. 

And  our  heads  went  round , and  the  stars  went  round , 
At  the  song  that  cruiser  sung: 

Half  a hundred  goggle-eyed  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

Half  a hundred  rose- white  Bacchanals  hauled  the  ropes  of 
that  rosy  cruiser!  • 

Over  the  seas  they  came  and  laid  their  little  white  hands  on 
the  old  black  barque; 

And  Bacchus  he  ups  and  he  steps  aboard:  “Hi,  stop!”  cries 

Hook,  “you  frantic  old  boozer! 

Belay,  below  there,  don’t  you  go  and  leave  poor  pirates  to  die 
in  the  dark!” 

And  the  moon  went  round , and  the  stars  went  rounds 
As  they  all  pushed  off  and  sung: 

Half  a hundred  ribhonless  Bacchanals 
When  the  world  was  young ! 

Over  the  seas  they  went  and  Bacchus  he  stands,  with  his 
yellow-eyed  leopards  beside  him, 

High  on  the  poop  of  rose  and  pearl,  and  kisses  his  hand  to 
us,  pleasant  as  pie! 

While  the  Bacchanals  danced  to  their  tambourines,  and  the 
vine-leaves  flew,  and  Hook  just  eyed  him 

Once,  as  a man  that  was  brought  up  pious,  and  scornfully 
hollers,  “ Well,  you  ain't  shy!}1 


BACCHUS  AND  THE  PIRATES 


63 


For  all  around  him , vine-leaf  crowned , 

The  wild  white  Bacchanals  flung ! 

Nor  it  wasn’t  a sight  for  respectable  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

All  around  that  rainbow-Nautilus  rippled  the  bloom  of  a thou- 
sand roses, 

Nay,  but  the  sparkle  of  fairy  sea-nymphs  breasting  a fairy- 
like sea  of  wine, 

Swimming  around  it  in  murmuring  thousands,  with  white 
arms  tossing;  till — all  that  we  knows  is 
The  light  went  out,  and  the  night  was  dark,  and  the  grapes 
had  burst  and  their  juice  was — brine! 

And  the  vines  that  bound  our  bodies  round 
Were  plain  wet  ropes  that  clung , 

Squeezing  the  light  out  o’  fifty  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

Over  the  seas  in  the  pomp  of  dawn  a king's  ship  came  with 
her  proud  flag  flying. 

Cloud  upon  cloud  we  watched  her  tower  with  her  belts 
and  her  crowded  zones  of  sail; 

And  an  A.B.  perched  in  a white  crow’s  nest,  with  a brass- 
rimmed  spy-glass  quietly  spying, 

As  we  swallowed  the  lumps  in  our  choking  throats  and 
uttered  our  last  faint  feeble  hail! 

And  our  heads  went  round  as  the  ship  went  round , 
And  we  thought  how  coves  had  swung: 

AU  for  playing  at  broad-sheet  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

Half  a hundred  trembling  corsairs,  all  cut  loose,  but  a trifle 
giddy, 

We  lands  on  their  trim  white  decks  at  last  and  the  bo’sun 
he  whistles  us  good  hot  grog, 

And  we  tries  to  confess,  but  there  wasn’t  a soul  from  the 
Admiral’s  self  to  the  gold-laced  middy 
But  says,  “ They’re  delirious  still,  poor  chaps,”  and  the 
Cap’n  he  enters  the  fact  in  his  log,j 


64 


THE  NEWSPAPER  BOY 


That  his  boat ’s  crew  found  us  nearly  drowned 
In  a barrel  without  a bung — 

Half  a hundred  suffering  sea-cooks 
When  the  world  was  young! 

So  we  sailed  by  Execution  Dock,  where  the  swinging  pirates 
haughty  and  scornful 

Rattled  their  chains,  and  on  Margate  beach  we  came  like 
a school-treat  safe  to  land; 

And  one  of  us  took  to  religion  at  once;  and  the  rest  of  the  crew, 
tho’  their  hearts  were  mournful, 

Capered  about  as  Christy  Minstrels,  while  Hook  conducted 
the  big  brass  band. 

And  the  sun  went  round , and  the  moon  went  round , 
Andy  0,  ’ twas  a thought  that  stung! 

There  was  none  to  believe  we  were  broad-sheet  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

Ah,  yet  (if  ye  stand  me  a noggin  of  rum)  shall  the  old  Blue 
Dolphin  echo  the  story ! 

We’ll  hoist  the  white  cross-bones  again  in  our  palmy  harbour 
of  Caribbee! 

We’ll  wave  farewell  to  our  brown-skinned  lasses  and,  chorussing 
out  to  the  billows  of  glory, 

Billows  a-glitter  with  rum  and  gold,  we’ll  follow  the  sunset 
over  the  sea! 

While  earth  goes  round , let  rum  go  round! 

0,  sing  it  as  we  sung! 

Half  a hundred  terrible  pirates 
When  the  world  was  young! 

THE  NEWSPAPER  BOY 
I 

Elf  of  the  City,  a lean  little  hollow-eyed  boy 
Ragged  and  tattered,  but  lithe  as  a slip  of  the  Spring, 
Under  the  lamp-light  he  runs  with  a reckless  joy 
Shouting  a murderer’s  doom  or  the  death  of  a King. 


THE  NEWSPAPER  BOY 


65 


Out  of  the  darkness  he  leaps  like  a wild  strange  hint, 
Herald  of  tragedy,  comedy,  crime  and  despair, 
Waving  a poster  that  hurls  you,  in  fierce  black  print 
One  word  Mystery , under  the  lamp’s  white  glare. 


II 

Elf  of  the  night  of  the  City  he  darts  with  his  crew 
Out  of  a vaporous  furnace  of  colour  that  wreathes 
Magical  letters  a-flicker  from  crimson  to  blue 

High  overhead.  All  round  him  the  mad  world  seethes. 
Hansoms,  like  cantering  beetles,  with  diamond  eyes 
Run  through  the  moons  of  it;  busses  in  yellow  and  red 
Hoot;  and  St.  Paul’s  is  a bubble  afloat  in  the  skies, 
Watching  the  pale  moths  flit  and  the  dark  death’s  head. 


Ill 

Painted  and  powdered  they  shimmer  and  rustle  and  stream 
Westward,  the  night  moths,  masks  of  the  Magdalen!  See, 
Puck  of  the  revels,  he  leaps  through  the  sinister  dream 
Waving  his  elfin  evangel  of  Mystery , 

Puck  of  the  bubble  or  dome  of  their  scoffing  or  trust, 

Puck  of  the  fairy-like  tower  with  the  clock  in  its  face, 

Puck  of  an  Empire  that  whirls  on  a pellet  of  dust 
Bearing  his  elfin  device  thro’  the  splendours  of  space. 


IV 

Mystery — is  it  the  scribble  of  doom  on  the  dark, 

Mene,  Mene,  Tekel,  Upharsin,  again? 

Mystery — is  it  a scrap  of  remembrance,  a spark 
Burning  still  in  the  fog  of  a blind  world’s  brain? 

Elf  of  the  gossamer  tangles  of  shadow  and  light, 

Wild  electrical  webs  and  the  battle  that  rolls 
League  upon  perishing  league  thro’  the  ravenous  night, 
Breaker  on  perishing  breaker  of  human  souls. 

5 


66 


THE  TWO  WORLDS 


V 

Soaked  in  the  colours,  a flake  of  the  flying  spray 

Flung  over  wreckage  and  yeast  of  the  murderous  town, 
Onward  he  flaunts  it,  innocent,  vicious  and  gay, 

Prophet  of  prayers  that  are  stifled  and  loves  that  drown, 
Urchin  and  sprat  of  the  City  that  roars  like  a sea 

Surging  around  him  in  hunger  and  splendour  and  shame, 
Cruelty,  luxury,  madness,  he  leaps  in  his  glee 
Out  of  the  mazes  of  mist  and  the  vistas  of  flame. 

VI 

Ragged  and  tattered  he  scurries  away  in  the  gloom: 

Over  the  thundering  traffic  a moment  his  cry 
Mystery!  Mystery! — reckless  of  death  and  doom 

Rings;  and  the  great  wheels  roll  and  the  world  goes  by. 
Lost,  is  it  lost,  that  hollow-eyed  flash  of  the  light? — 

Poor  little  face  flying  by  with  the  word  that  saves, 

Pale  little  mouth  of  the  mask  of  the  measureless  night, 
Shrilling  the  heart  of  it,  lost  like  the  foam  on  its  waves! 


THE  TWO  WORLDS 

This  outer  world  is  but  the  pictured  scroll 
Of  worlds  within  the  soul, 

A coloured  chart,  a blazoned  missal-book 
Whereon  who  rightly  look 
May  spell  the  splendours  with  their  mortal  eyes 
And  steer  to  Paradise. 

0,  well  for  him  that  knows  and  early  knows 
In  his  own  soul  the  rose 
Secretly  burgeons,  of  this  earthly  flower 
The  heavenly  paramour: 

And  all  these  fairy  dreams  of  green-wood  fern, 
These  waves  that  break  and  yearn, 
Shadows  and  hieroglyphs,  hills,  clouds  and  seas, 
Faces  and  flowers  and  trees, 

Terrestrial  picture-parables,  relate 
Each  to  its  heavenly  mate. 


THE  TWO  WORLDS 


67 


O,  well  for  him  that  finds  in  sky  and  sea 
This  two-fold  mystery, 

And  loses  not  (as  painfully  he  spells 
The  fine-spun  syllables) 

The  cadences,  the  burning  inner  gleam, 
The  poet’s  heavenly  dream. 


Well  for  the  poet  if  this  earthly  chart 
Be  printed  in  his  heart, 

When  to  his  world  of  spirit  woods  and  seas 
With  eager  face  he  flees 

And  treads  the  untrodden  fields  of  unknown  flowers 
And  threads  the  angelic  bowers, 

And  hears  that  unheard  nightingale  whose  moan 
Trembles  within  his  own, 

And  lovers  murmuring  in  the  leafy  lanes 
Of  his  own  joys  and  pains. 


For  though  he  voyages  further  than  the  flight 
Of  earthly  day  and  night, 

Traversing  to  the  sky’s  remotest  ends 
A world  that  he  transcends, 

Safe,  he  shall  hear  the  hidden  breakers  roar 
Against  the  mystic  shore; 

Shall  roam  the  yellow  sands  where  sirens  bare 
Their  breasts  and  wind  their  hair; 
Shall  with  their  perfumed  tresses  blind  his  eyes, 
And  still  possess  the  skies. 


He,  where  the  deep  unearthly  jungles  are, 
Beneath  his  Eastern  star 
Shall  pass  the  tawny  lion  in  his  den 
And  cross  the  quaking  fen. 

He  learnt  his  path  (and  treads  it  undefiled) 
When,  as  a little  child, 

He  bent  his  head  with  long  and  loving  looks 
O’er  earthly  picture-books. 

His  earthly  love  nestles  against  his  side, 

His  young  celestial  guide. 


68 


GORSE 


GORSE 

Between  my  face  and  the  warm  blue  sky 
The  crisp  white  clouds  go  sailing  by, 

And  the  only  sound  is  the  sound  of  your  breathing, 

The  song  of  a bird  and  the  sea’s  long  sigh: 

Here,  on  the  downs,  as  a tale  re-told 

The  sprays  of  the  gorse  are  a-blaze  with  gold, 

As  of  old,  on  the  sea-washed  hills  of  my  boyhood, 
Breathing  the  same  sweet  scent  as  of  old. 

Under  a ragged  golden  spray 
The  great  sea  sparkles  far  away, 

Beautiful,  bright,  as  my  heart  remembers 
Many  a dazzle  of  waves  in  May. 

Long  ago  as  I watched  them  shine 
Under  the  boughs  of  fir  and  pine, 

Here  I watch  them  to-day  and  wonder, 

Here,  with  my  love’s  hand  warm  in  mine. 

The  soft  wings  pass  that  we  used  to  chase, 

Dreams  that  I dreamed  had  left  not  a trace, 

The  same,  the  same,  with  the  bars  of  crimson 
The  green-veined  white,  with  its  floating  grace, 

The  same  to  the  least  bright  fleck  on  their  wings! 

And  I close  my  eyes,  and  a lost  bird  sings, 

And  a far  sea  sighs,  and  the  old  sweet  fragrance 
Wraps  me  round  with  the  dear  dead  springs, 

Wraps  me  round  with  the  springs  to  be 
When  lovers  that  think  not  of  you  or  me 
Laugh,  but  our  eyes  will  be  closed  in  darkness, 

Closed  to  the  sky  and  the  gorse  and  the  sea, 

And  the  same  great  glory  of  ragged  gold 
Once  more,  once  more,  as  a tale  re-told 

Shall  whisper  their  hearts  with  the  same  sweet  fragrance 
And  their  warm  hands  cling,  as  of  old,  as  of  old. 


EIGHTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH  69 


Dead  and  un-born,  the  same  blue  skies 
Cover  us!  Love,  as  I read  your  eyes, 
Do  I not  know  whose  love  enfolds  us, 
As  we  fold  the  past  in  our  memories, 


Past,  present,  future,  the  old  and  the  new? 

From  the  depths  of  the  grave  a cry  breaks  through 
And  trembles,  a sky-lark  blind  in  the  azure, 

The  depths  of  the  all-enfolding  blue. 


O,  resurrection  of  folded  years 
Deep  in  our  hearts,  with  your  smiles  and  tears, 
Dead  and  un-born  shall  not  He  remember 
Who  folds  our  cry  in  His  heart,  and  hears. 


FOR  THE  EIGHTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF 
GEORGE  MEREDITH 

A health,  a ringing  health,  unto  the  king 

Of  all  our  hearts  to-day ! But  what  proud  song 
Should  follow  on  the  thought,  nor  do  him  wrong? 
Except  the  sea  were  harp,  each  mirthful  string 
The  lovely  lightning  of  the  nights  of  Spring, 

And  Dawn  the  lonely  listener,  glad  and  grave 
With  colours  of  the  sea-shell  and  the  wave 
In  brightening  eye  and  cheek,  there  is  none  to  sing! 


Drink  to  him,  as  men  upon  an  Alpine  peak 
Brim  one  immortal  cup  of  crimson  wine, 

And  into  it  drop  one  pure  cold  crust  of  snow, 
Then  hold  it  up,  too  rapturously  to  speak 

And  drink — to  the  mountains,  line  on  glittering  line. 
Surging  away  into  the  sunset-glow. 


70 


IN  MEMORY  OF  SWINBURNE 


IN  MEMORY  OF  SWINBURNE 

I 

April  from  shore  to  shore,  from  sea  to  sea, 

April  in  heaven  and  on  the  springing  spray 
Buoyant  with  birds  that  sing  to  welcome  May 
And  April  in  those  eyes  that  mourn  for  thee: 

“This  is  my  singing  month;  my  hawthorn  tree 
Burgeons  once  more,”  we  seemed  to  hear  thee  say, 
“This  is  my  singing  month:  my  fingers  stray 
Over  the  lute.  What  shall  the  music  be?” 

And  April  answered  with  too  great  a song 
For  mortal  lips  to  sing  or  hearts  to  hear, 

Heard  only  of  that  high  invisible  throng 

For  whom  thy  song  makes  April  all  the  year! 

“My  singing  month,  what  bringest  thou?”  Her  breath 
Swooned  with  all  music,  and  she  answered. — “ Death.” 

II 

Ah,  but  on  earth, — “can’st  thou,  too,  die,” 

Low’  she  whispers,  “lover  of  mine?” 

April,  queen  over  earth  and  sky 

Whispers,  her  trembling  lashes  shine: 

“Wings  of  the  sea,  good-bye,  good-bye, 

Down  to  the  dim  sea-line.” 

Home  to  the  heart  of  thine  old-world  lover, 

Home  to  thy  “fair  green-girdled”  sea! 

There  shall  thy  soul  with  the  sea-birds  hover, 

Free  of  the  deep  as  their  wings  are  free; 

Free,  for  the  grave-flowers  only  cover 
This,  the  dark  cage  of  thee. 

Thee,  the  storm-bird,  nightingale-souled, 

Brother  of  Sappho,  the  seas  reclaim! 

Age  upon  age  have  the  great  waves  rolled 
Mad  wfith  her  music,  exultant,  aflame; 

Thee,  thee  too,  shall  their  glory  enfold, 

Lit  with  thy  snow-winged  fame. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  SWINBURNE 


71 


Back,  thro'  the  years,  fleets  the  sea-bird's  wing: 
Sappho , of  old  time , once, — ah,  hark! 

So  did  he  love  her  of  old  and  sing! 

Listen,  he  flies  to  her,  back  thro'  the  dark! 
Sappho , of  old  time,  once.  . . .Yea,  Spring 
Calls  him  home  to  her,  hark! 


Sappho , long  since , in  the  years  far  sped, 
Sappho , I loved  thee!  Did  I not  seem 
Fosterling  only  of  earth?  I have  fled, 
Fled  to  thee,  sister.  Time  is  a dream! 
Shelley  is  here  with  us!  Death  lies  dead! 
Ah,  how  the  bright  waves  gleam. 


Wide  was  the  cage-door,  idly  swinging; 

April  touched  me  and  whispered  “Come.” 
Out  and  away  to  the  great  deep  winging, 
Sister,  I flashed  to  thee  over  the  foam, 
Out  to  the  sea  of  Eternity,  singing 
“Mother,  thy  child  comes  home.” 


Ah,  but  how  shall  we  welcome  May 

Here  where  the  wing  of  song  droops  low, 
Here  by  the  last  green  swinging  spray 
Brushed  by  the  sea-bird's  wings  of  snow, 
We  that  gazed  on  his  glorious  way 
Out  where  the  great  winds  blow? 


Here  upon  earth — “can’st  thou , too , die , 
Lover  of  life  and  lover  of  mine?” 
April , conquering  earth  and  sky 

Whispers , her  trembling  lashes  shine: 
“Wings  of  the  sea , good-bye , good-bye , 
Down  to  the  dim  sea-line .” 


72  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

I 

How  grandly  glow  the  bays 
Purpureally  enwound 
With  those  rich  thorns,  the  brows 
How  infinitely  crowned 
That  now  thro’  Deaths  dark  house 
Have  passed  with  royal  gaze: 

Purpureally  enwound 

How  grandly  glow  the  bays. 

II 

Sweet,  sweet  and  three-fold  sweet, 

Pulsing  with  three-fold  pain, 

Where  the  lark  fails  of  flight 
Soared  the  celestial  strain; 

Beyond  the  sapphire  height 
Flew  the  gold-winged  feet, 

Beautiful,  pierced  with  pain, 

Sweet,  sweet  and  three-fold  sweet; 

III 

And  where  Is  not  and  Is 

Are  wed  in  one  sweet  Name, 

And  the  world's  rootless  vine 
With  dew  of  stars  a-flame 
Laughs,  from  those  deep  divine 
Impossibilities, 

Our  reason  all  to  shame — 

This  cannot  be,  but  is; 

IV 

Into  the  Vast,  the  Deep 
Beyond  all  mortal  sight, 

The  Nothingness  that  conceived 
The  worlds  of  day  and  night, 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 


The  Nothingness  that  heaved 
Pure  sides  in  virgin  sleep, 
Brought  out  of  Darkness,  light; 
And  man  from  out  the  Deep. 


V 

Into  that  Mystery 
Let  not  thine  hand  be  thrust: 
Nothingness  is  a world 

Thy  science  well  may  trust  . . . 
But  lo,  a leaf  unfurled, 

Nay,  a cry  mocking  thee 
From  the  first  grain  of  dust — 

I am,  yet  cannot  be! 


VI 

Adventuring  un-afraid 
Into  that  last  deep  shrine, 
Must  not  the  child-heart  see 
Its  deepest  symbol  shine, 
The  world’s  Birth-mystery, 
Whereto  the  suns  are  shade? 
Lo,  the  white  breast  divine — 
The  holy  Mother-maid! 


VII 

How  miss  that  Sacrifice, 

That  cross  of  Yea  and  Nay, 

That  paradox  of  heaven 

Whose  palms  point  either  way, 
Through  each  a nail  being  driven 
That  the  arms  out-span  the  skies 
And  our  earth-dust  this  day 
Out-sweeten  Paradise. 


74 


IN  MEMORY  OF  MEREDITH 


VIII 

We  part  the  seamless  robe, 
Our  wisdom  would  divide 
The  raiment  of  the  King, 

Our  spear  is  in  His  side, 
Even  while  the  angels  sing 
Around  our  perishing  globe, 
And  Death  re-knits  in  pride 
The  seamless  purple  robe. 


IX 

How  grandly  glow  the  hays 
Purpureally  enwound 
With  those  rich  thorns , the  brows 
How  infinitely  crowned 
That  now  thro ’ Death’s  dark  house 
Have  passed  with  royal  gaze: 
Purpureally  enwound 

How  grandly  glow  the  bays. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  MEREDITH 

I 

High  on  the  mountains,  who  stands  proudly,  clad  with  the 
light  of  May, 

Rich  as  the  dawn,  deep-hearted  as  night,  diamond-bright  as 
day, 

Who,  while  the  slopes  of  the  beautiful  valley  throb  with  our 
muffled  tread 

Who,  with  the  hill-flowers  wound  in  her  tresses,  welcomes  our 
deathless  dead? 


II 

Is  it  not  she  whom  he  sought  so  long  throy  the  high  lawns 
dewy  and  sweet, 

Up  thro'  the  crags  and  the  glittering  snows  faint-flushed  with 
her  rosy  feet, 


IN  MEMORY  OF  MEREDITH 


75 


Is  it  not  she — the  queen  of  our  night — crowned  by  the  unseen 
sun, 

Artemis,  she  that  can  see  the  light,  when  light  upon  earth  is 
none? 


Ill 

Huntress,  queen  of  the  dark  of  the  world  (no  darker  at  night 
than  noon) 

Beauty  immortal  and  undefiled,  the  Eternal  sun’s  white  moon, 

Only  by  thee  and  thy  silver  shafts  for  a flash  can  our  hearts 
discern, 

Pierced  to  the  quick,  the  love,  the  love  that  still  thro’  the  dark 
doth  yearn. 


IV 

What  to  his  soul  were  the  hill-flowers,  what  the  gold  at  the  break 
of  day 

Shot  thro’  the  red-stemmed  firs  to  the  lake  where  the  swimmer 
clove  his  way, 

What  were  the  quivering  harmonies  showered  from  the  heaven- 
tossed  heart  of  the  lark, 

Artemis,  Huntress,  what  were  these  but  thy  keen  shafts  cleav- 
ing the  dark? 


V 

Frost  of  the  hedge-row,  flash  of  the  jasmine,  sparkle  of  dew  on 
the  leaf, 

Seas  lit  wide  by  the  summer  lightning,  shafts  from  thy  diamond 
sheaf, 

Deeply  they  pierced  him,  deeply  he  loved  thee,  now  has  he 
found  thy  soul, 

Artemis,  thine,  in  this  bridal  peal,  where  we  hear  but  the  death- 
bell  toll. 


76 


THE  SCHOLARS 


THE  TESTIMONY  OF  ART 

As  earth,  sad  earth,  thrusts  many  a gloomy  cape 
Into  the  sea’s  bright  colour  and  living  glee, 

So  do  we  strive  to  embay  that  mystery 
Which  earthly  hands  must  ever  let  escape; 

The  Word  we  seek  for  is  the  golden  shape 
That  shall  enshrine  the  Soul  we  cannot  see, 

A temporal  chalice  of  Eternity 
Purple  with  beating  blood  of  the  hallowed  grape. 

Once  was  it  wine  and  sacramental  bread 

Whereby  we  knew  the  power  that  through  Him  smiled 
When,  in  one  still  small  utterance,  He  hurled 
The  Eternities  beneath  His  feet  and  said 
With  lips,  O meek  as  any  little  child, 

Be  of  good  cheer , I have  overcome  the  world 


THE  SCHOLARS 

Where  is  the  scholar  whose  clear  mind  can  hold 
The  floral  text  of  one  sweet  April  mead? — 
The  flowing  lines,  which  few  can  spell  indeed 
Though  most  will  note  the  scarlet  and  the  gold 
Around  the  flourishing  capitals  grandly  scrolled; 
But  ah,  the  subtle  cadences  that  need 
The  lover’s  heart,  the  lover’s  heart  to  read, 
And  ah,  the  songs  unsung,  the  tales  untold. 


Poor  fools-capped  scholars — grammar  keeps  us  closo, 
The  primers  thrall  us,  and  our  eyes  grow  dim: 
When  will  old  Master  Science  hear  the  call, 

Bid  us  run  free  with  life  in  every  limb 
To  breathe  the  poems  and  hear  the  last  red  rose 
Gossiping  over  God’s  grey  garden-wall? 


RESURRECTION 


77 


RESURRECTION 

Once  more  I hear  the  everlasting  sea 

Breathing  beneath  the  mountain’s  fragrant  breast, 
Come  unto  Me,  come  unto  Me, 

And  I will  give  you  rest . 

We  have  destroyed  the  Temple  and  in  three  days 
He  hath  rebuilt  it — all  things  are  made  new: 

And  hark  what  wild  throats  pour  His  praise 
Beneath  the  boundless  blue. 

We  plucked  down  all  His  altars,  cried  aloud 
And  gashed  ourselves  for  little  gods  of  clay! 

Yon  floating  cloud  was  but  a cloud, 

The  May  no  more  than  May. 

We  plucked  down  all  His  altars,  left  not  one 
Save  where,  perchance  (and  ah,  the  joy  was  fleet), 
We  laid  our  garlands  in  the  sun 
At  the  white  Sea-born’s  feet. 

We  plucked  down  all  His  altars,  not  to  make 

The  small  praise  greater,  but  the  great  praise  less, 
We  sealed  all  fountains  where  the  soul  could  slake 
Its  thirst  and  weariness. 

“ Love”  was  too  small,  too  human  to  be  found 

In  that  transcendent  source  whence  love  was  born: 
We  talked  of  “forces  ” : heaven  was  crowned 
With  philosophic  thorn. 

“Your  God  is  in  your  image,”  we  cried,  but  0, 

’Twas  only  man’s  own  deepest  heart  ye  gave, 
Knowing  that  He  transcended  all  ye  know, 

While  we — we  dug  His  grave. 

Denied  Him  even  the  crown  on  our  own  brow, 

E’en  these  poor  symbols  of  His  loftier  reign, 
Levelled  His  Temple  with  the  dust,  and  now 
He  is  risen,  He  is  risen  again, 


78 


A JAPANESE  LOVE-SONG 


Risen,  like  this  resurrection  of  the  year, 

This  grand  ascension  of  the  choral  spring, 
Which  those  harp-crowded  heavens  bend  to  hear 
And  meet  upon  the  wing. 


“He  is  dead,”  we  cried,  and  even  amid  that  gloom 
The  wintry  veil  was  rent!  The  new-born  day 
Showed  us  the  Angel  seated  in  the  tomb 
And  the  stone  rolled  away. 


It  is  the  hour!  We  challenge  heaven  above 
Now,  to  deny  our  slight  ephemeral  breath 
Joy,  anguish,  and  that  everlasting  love 
Which  triumphs  over  death. 


A JAPANESE  LOVE-SONG 

I 

The  young  moon  is  white, 

But  the  willows  are  blue: 

Your  small  lips  are  red, 

But  the  great  clouds  are  greys 
The  waves  are  so  many 
That  whisper  to  you; 

But  my  love  is  onfy 
One  flight  of  spray. 

II 

The  bright  drops  are  many, 

The  dark  wave  is  one: 

The  dark  wave  subsides, 

And  the  bright  sea  remains ! 
And  wherever,  O singing 
Maid,  you  may  run, 

You  are  one  with  the  world 
For  all  your  pains. 


THE  TWO  PAINTER'S 


79 


III 

Though  the  great  skies  are  dark, 
And  your  small  feet  are  white, 
Though  your  wide  eyes  are  blue 
And  the  closed  poppies  red, 

Tho’  the  kisses  are  many 
That  colour  the  night, 

They  are  linked  like  pearls 
On  one  golden  thread. 

IV 

Were  the  grey  clouds  not  made 
For  the  red  of  your  mouth; 

The  ages  for  flight 
Of  the  butterfly  years; 

The  sweet  of  the  peach 
For  the  pale  lips  of  drouth, 

The  sunlight  of  smiles 
For  the  shadow  of  tears? 

V 

Love,  Love  is  the  thread 

That  has  pierced  them  with  bliss! 
All  their  hues  are  but  notes 
In  one  world- wide  tune: 

Lips,  willows,  and  waves, 

We  are  one  as  we  kiss, 

And  your  face  and  the  flowers 
Faint  away  in  the  moon. 


THE  TWO  PAINTERS 

(a  tale  of  old  japan.) 

I 

Yoichi  Tenko,  the  painter, 
Dwelt  by  the  purple  sea, 
Painting  the  peacock  islands 
Under  his  willow-tree: 


80 


THE  TWO  PAINTERS 


Also  in  temples  he  painted 
Dragons  of  old  Japan, 

With  a child  to  look  at  the  pictures — 
Little  0 Kimi  San. 


Kimi,  the  child  of  his  brother, 
Bright  as  the  moon  in  May, 
White  as  a lotus  lily, 

Pink  as  a plum-tree  spray, 
Linking  her  soft  arm  round  him 
Sang  to  his  heart  for  an  hour, 
Kissed  him  with  ripples  of  laughter 
And  lips  of  the  cherry  flower. 


Child  of  the  old  pearl-fisher 
Lost  in  his  junk  at  sea, 

Kimi  was  loved  of  Tenko 
As  his  own  child  might  be, 

Yoichi  Tenko  the  painter, 

Wrinkled  and  grey  and  old, 

Teacher  of  many  disciples 

That  paid  for  his  dreams  with  gold. 


XI 

Peonies,  peonies  crowned  the  May! 
Clad  in  blue  and  white  array 
Came  Sawara  to  the  school 
Under  the  silvery  willow-tree, 

All  to  learn  of  Tenko! 

Riding  on  a milk-white  mule, 

Young  and  poor  and  proud  was  he, 
Lissom  as  a cherry  spray 
(Peonies,  peonies,  crowned  the  day!) 
And  he  rode  the  golden  way 
To  the  school  of  Tenko. 


THE  TWO  PAINTERS 


81 


Swift  to  learn,  beneath  his  hand 
Soon  he  watched  his  wonderland 
Growing  cloud  by  magic  cloud, 

Under  the  silvery  willow-tree 
t In  the  school  of  Tenko: 

Kimi  watched  him,  young  and  proud, 
Painting  by  the  purple  sea, 

Lying  on  the  golden  sand 
Watched  his  golden  wings  expand! 
(None  but  Love  will  understand 
All  she  hid  from  Tenko.) 

He  could  paint  her  tree  and  flower, 

Sea  and  spray  and  wizard’s  tower, 

With  one  stroke,  now  hard,  now  soft, 
Under  the  silvery  willow-tree 
In  the  school  of  Tenko: 

He  could  fling  a bird  aloft, 

Splash  a dragon  in  the  sea, 

Crown  a princess  in  her  bower, 

With  one  stroke  of  magic  power; 

And  she  watched  him,  hour  by  hour, 

In  the  school  of  Tenko. 

Yoichi  Tenko,  wondering,  scanned 
All  the  work  of  that  young  hand, 

Gazed  his  kakemonos  o’er, 

Under  the  silvery  willow-tree 
In  the  school  of  Tenko: 

“I  can  teach  you  nothing  more, 
Thought  or  craft  or  mystery; 

Let  your  golden  wings  expand, 

They  will  shadow  half  the  land, 

All  the  world’s  at  your  command. 

Come  no  more  to  Tenko.” 

Lying  on  the  golden  sand , 

Kimi  watched  his  wings  expand; 

Wept. — He  could  not  understand 
Why  she  wept , said  Tenko . 


82 


THE  TWO  PAINTERS 


III 

So,  in  her  blue  kimono, 

Pale  as  the  sickle  moon 
Glimmered  thro’  soft  plum-branches 
Blue  in  the  dusk  of  June, 

Stole  she,  willing  and  waning, 
Frightened  and  unafraid, — 

“Take  me  with  you,  Sawara, 

Over  the  sea,”  she  said. 

Small  and  sadly  beseeching, 

Under  the  willow-tree, 

Glimmered  her  face  like  a foam-flake 
Drifting  over  the  sea: 

Pale  as  a drifting  blossom, 

Lifted  her  face  to  his  eyes: 

Slowly  he  gathered  and  held  her 
Under  the  drifting  skies. 

Poor  little  face  cast  backward, 

Better  to  see  his  own, 

Earth  and  heaven  went  past  them 
Drifting:  they  two,  alone 
Stood,  immortal.  He  whispered — 
“Nothing  can  part  us  two!” 
Backward  her  sad  little  face  went 
Drifting,  and  dreamed  it  true. 

“Others  are  happy,”  she  murmured, 
“Maidens  and  men  I have  seen; 
You  are  my  king,  Sawara, 

O,  let  me  be  your  queen! 

If  I am  all  too  lowly,” 

Sadly  she  strove  to  smile, 

“Let  me  follow  your  footsteps, 

Your  slave  for  a little  while.” 

Surely,  he  thought,  I have  painted 
Nothing  so  fair  as  this 
Moonlit  almond  blossom 
Sweet  to  fold  and  kiss, 


THE  TWO  PAINTERS 


83 


Brow  that  is  filled  with  music, 
Shell  of  a faery  sea, 

Eyes  like  the  holy  violets 
Brimmed  wTith  dew  for  me. 


“Wait  for  Sawara,”  he  whispered, 
“Does  not  his  whole  heart  yearn 
Now  to  his  moon-bright  maiden? 

Wait,  for  he  will  return 
Rich  as  the  wave  on  the  moon’s  path 
Rushing  to  claim  his  bride!” 

So  they  plighted  their  promise, 

And  the  ebbing  sea- wave  sighed. 


IV 

Moon  and  flower  and  butterfly, 

Earth  and  heaven  went  drifting  by, 

Three  long  years  while  Kimi  dreamed 
Under  the  silvery  willow-tree 
In  the  school  of  Tenko, 

Steadfast  while  the  whole  world  streamed 
Past  her  tow’rds  Eternity; 

Steadfast  till  with  one  great  cry, 

Ringing  to  the  gods  on  high, 

Golden  wings  should  blind  the  sky 
And  bring  him  back  to  Tenko. 

Three  long  years  and  nought  to  say 
“Sweet,  I come  the  golden  way, 

Riding  royally  to  the  school 
Under  the  silvery  willowr-tree 
Claim  my  bride  of  Tenko; 

Silver  bells  on  a milk-white  mule, 

Rcse-red  sails  on  an  emerald  sea!”  . . * 
Kimi  sometimes  went  to  pray 
In  the  temple  nigh  the  bay, 

Dreamed  all  night  and  gazed  all  day 
Over  the  sea  from  Tenko. 


84 


THE  TWO  PAINTERS 


Far  away  his  growing  fame 
Lit  the  clouds.  No  message  came 
From  the  sky,  whereon  she  gazed 
Under  the  silvery  willow-tree 
Far  away  from  Tenko! 

Small  white  hands  in  the  temple  raised 
Pleaded  with  the  Mystery,- — 

“ Stick  of  incense  in  the  flame, 

Though  my  love  forget  my  name, 

Help  him,  bless  him,  all  the  same, 

And  . . . bring  him  back  to  Tenko !” 

Rose-white  temple  nigh  the  hay , 

Hush!  for  Kimi  comes  to  pray , 

Dream  all  night  and  gaze  all  day 
Over  the  sea  from  Tenko. 

y 

So,  when  the  rich  young  merchant 
Showed  him  his  bags  of  gold, 

Yoichi  Tenko,  the  painter, 

Gave  him  her  hand  to  hold, 

Said:  “You  shall  wed  him,  O Kimi  ” 
Softly  he  lied  and  smiled — 
u Yea , for  Sawara  is  wedded ! 

Let  him  not  mock  you , child 

Dumbly  she  turned  and  left  them, 
Never  a word  or  cry 
Broke  from  her  lips’  grey  petals 
Under  the  drifting  sky: 

Down  to  the  spray  and  the  rainbows, 
Where  she  had  watched  him  of  old 
Painting  the  rose-red  islands, 

Painting  the  sand’s  wet  gold, 

Down  to  their  dreams  of  the  sunset, 
Frail  as  a flower’s  white  ghost, 
Lonely  and  lost  she  wandered 
Down  to  the  darkening  coast* 


THE  TWO  PAINTERS 


Lost  in  the  drifting  midnight, 
Weeping,  desolate,  blind. 

Many  went  out  to  seek  her: 

Never  a heart  could  find. 

Yoichi  Tenko,  the  painter, 

Plucked  from  his  willow-tree 
Two  big  paper  lanterns 

And  ran  to  the  brink  of  the  sea; 
Over  his  head  he  held  them, 
Crying,  and  only  heard, 
Somewhere,  out  in  the  darkness, 
The  cry  of  a wandering  bird* 


VI 

Peonies,  peonies  thronged  the  May 
When  in  royal-rich  array 
Came  Sawara  to  the  school 
Under  the  silvery  willow-tree — 

To  the  school  of  Tenko ! 

Silver  bells  on  a milk-white  mule, 
Rose-red  sails  on  an  emerald  sea! 
Over  the  bloom  of  the  cherry  spray, 
Peonies,  peonies  dimmed  the  day; 
And  he  rode  the  royal  way 
Back  to  Yoichi  Tenko. 

Yoichi  Tenko,  half  afraid, 
Whispered,  “Wed  some  other  maid; 

Kimi  left  me  all  alone 
Under  the  silvery  willow-tree, 

Left  me,”  whispered  Tenko, 
“Kimi  had  a heart  of  stone!” — 
“Kimi,  Kimi?  Who  is  she? 
Kimi?  Ah — the  child  that  played 
Round  the  willow-tree.  She  prayed 
Often;  and,  whate’er  I said, 

She  believed  it,  Tenko.” 


86 


THE  TWO  PAINTERS 


He  had  come  to  paint  anew 
Those  dim  isles  of  rose  and  blue, 
For  a palace  far  away, 

Under  the  silvery  willow-tree — 

So  he  said  to  Tenko; 

And  he  painted,  day  by  day, 

Golden  visions  of  the  sea. 

No,  he  had  not  come  to  woo; 

Yet,  had  Kimi  proven  true, 
Doubtless  he  had  loved  her  too, 
Hardly  less  than  Tenko. 

Since  the  thought  was  in  his  head, 
He  would  make  his  choice  and  wed; 

And  a lovely  maid  he  chose 
Under  the  silvery  willow-tree. 

“ Fairer  far,”  said  Tenko. 

“Kimi  had  a twisted  nose, 

And  a foot  too  small,  for  me, 

And  her  face  was  dull  as  lead!” 
“Nay,  a flower,  be  it  white  or  red, 
Is  a flower,”  Sawara  said! 

“So  it  is,”  said  Tenko. 


VII 

Great  Sawara,  the  painter, 

Sought,  on  a day  of  days, 

One  of  the  peacock  islands 
Out  in  the  sunset  haze: 

Rose-red  sails  on  the  water 
Carried  him  quickly  nigh; 

There  would  he  paint  him  a wonder 
Worthy  of  Hokusai. 

Lo,  as  he  leapt  o’er  the  creaming 
Roses  of  faery  foam, 

Out  of  the  green -lipped  caverns 
Under  the  isle’s  blue  dome, 


THE  TWO  PAINTERS 


87 


White  as  a drifting  snow-flake, 
White  as  the  moon’s  white  flame, 
White  as  a ghost  from  the  darkness, 
Little  0 Kimi  came. 

“Long  I have  waited,  Sawara, 

Here  in  our  sunset  isle, 

Sawara,  Sawara,  Sawara, 

Look  on  me  once,  and  smile; 

Face  I have  watched  so  long  for, 
Hands  I have  longed  to  hold, 
Sawara,  Sawara,  Sawara, 

Why  is  your  heart  so  cold?” 

Surely,  he  thought,  I have  painted 
Nothing  so  fair  as  this 
Moonlit  almond  blossom 
Sweet  to  fold  and  kiss.  . . . 
“Kimi,”  he  said,  “I  am  wedded! 

Hush,  for  it  could  not  be!” 

“Kiss  me  one  kiss,”  she  whispered, 
“Me  also,  even  me.” 

Small  and  terribly  drifting 
Backward,  her  sad  white  face 
Lifted  up  to  Sawara 

Once,  in  that  lonely  place, 

White  as  a drifting  blossom 
Under  his  wondering  eyes, 

Slowly  he  gathered  and  held  her 
Under  the  drifting  skies. 

“Others  are  happy,”  she  whispered, 
“ Maidens  and  men  I have  seen: 
Be  happy,  be  happy,  Sawara! 

The  other — shall  be — your  queen! 
Kiss  me  one  kiss  for  parting.” 
Trembling  she  lifted  her  head, 
Then  like  a broken  blossom 

It  fell  on  his  arm.  She  was  dead. 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND 


VIII 

Much  impressed,  Sawara  straight 
(Though  the  hour  was  growing  late) 

Made  a sketch  of  Kimi  lying 
By  the  lonely,  sighing  sea, 

Brought  it  back  to  Tenko. 

Tenko  looked  it  over  crying 
(Under  the  silvery  willow-tree).. 

“ You  have  burst  the  golden  gate! 

You  have  conquered  Time  and  Fate! 
Hokusai  is  not  so  great! 

This  is  Art,”  said  Tenko! 

THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND 

I 

I REMEMBER — 

a breath,  a breath 
Blown  thro*  the  rosy  gates  of  birth, 

A morning  freshness  not  of  the  earth 
But  cool  and  strange  and  lovely  as  death 
In  Paradise,  in  Paradise, 

When,  all  to  suffer  the  old  sweet  pain 
Closing  his  immortal  eyes 
Wonder- wild  an  angel  lies 
With  wings  of  rainbow-tinctured  grain 
Withering  till — ah,  wonder-wild, 

Here  on  the  dawning  earth  again 
He  wakes,  a little  child, 

II 

I remember — 

a gleam,  a gleam 

Of  sparkling  waves  and  warm  blue  sky 
Far  away  and  long  ago, 

Or  ever  I knew  that  youth  could  die; 
And  out  of  the  dawn,  the  dawn,  the  dawn, 
Into  the  unknown  life  we  sailed 
As  out  of  sleep  into  a dreatn, 

And,  as  with  elfin  cables  drawn 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND 


as 


In  dusk  of  purple  over  the  glowing 
Wrinkled  measureless  emerald  sea, 

The  light  cloud  shadows  larger  far 

Than  the  sweet  shapes  which  drew  them  on, 

Elfin  exquisite  shadows  flowing 
Between  us  and  the  morning  star 
Chased  us  all  a summer’s  day, 

And  our  sail  like  a dew-lit  blossom  shone 
Till,  over  a rainbow  haze  of  spray 
That  arched  a reef  of  surf  like  snow 
— Far  away  and  long  ago — 

We  saw  the  sky-line  rosily  engrailed 

With  tufted  peaks  above  a smooth  lagoon 
Which  growing,  growing,  growing  as  we  sailed 
Curved  all  around  them  like  a crescent  moon; 
And  then  we  saw  the  purple-shadowed  creeks, 
The  feathery  palms,  the  gleaming  golden  streaks 
Of  sand,  and  nearer  yet,  like  jewels  of  fire 
Streaming  between  the  boughs,  or  floating  higher 
Like  tiny  sunset-clouds  in  noon-day  skies, 

The  birds  of  Paradise. 

Ill 

The  island  floated  in  the  air, 

Its  image  floated  in  the  sea: 

Which  was  the  shadow?  Both  were  fair: 

Like  sister  souls  they  seemed  to  be; 

And  one  was  dreaming  and  asleep, 

And  one  bent  down  from  Paradise 
To  kiss  with  radiance  in  the  deep 
The  darkling  lips  and  eyes. 

And,  mingling  softly  in  their  dreams, 

That  holy  kiss  of  sea  and  sky 
Transfused  the  shadows  and  the  gleams 
Of  Time  and  of  Eternity: 

The  dusky  face  looked  up  and  gave 
To  heaven  its  golden  shadowed  calm; 

The  face  of  light  fulfilled  the  wave 
With  blissful  wings  and  fans  of  palm. 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND 


Above,  the  tufted  rosy  peaks 

That  melted  in  the  warm  blue  skies. 
Below,  the  purple-shadowed  creeks 
That  glassed  the  birds  of  Paradise — 

A bridal  knot,  it  hung  in  heaven; 

And,  all  around,  the  still  lagoon 
From  bloom  of  dawn  to  blush  of  even 
Curved  like  a crescent  moon. 

And  there  we  wandered  evermore 
Thro’  boyhood’s  everlasting  years, 
Listening  the  murmur  of  the  shore 
As  one  that  lifts  a shell  and  hears 
The  murmur  of  forgotten  seas 
Around  some  lost  Broceliande, 

The  sigh  of  sweet  Eternities 

That  turn  the  world  to  fairy -land, 

That  turned  our  isle  to  a single  pearl 
Glowing  in  measureless  waves  of  wine! 
Above,  below,  the  clouds  would  curl, 

Above,  below,  the  stars  would  shine 
In  sky  and  sea.  We  hung  in  heaven! 

Time  and  space  were  but  elfin-sweet 
Rock-bound  pools  for  the  dawn  and  even 
To  wade  with  their  rosy  feet. 

Our  pirate  cavern  faced  the  West: 

We  closed  its  door  with  screens  of  palm, 
While  some  went  out  to  seek  the  nest 
Wherein  the  Phoenix,  breathing  balm, 
Bums  and  dies  to  live  for  ever 

(How  should  we  dream  we  lived  to  die?) 
And  some  would  fish  in  the  purple  river 
That  thro’  the  hills  brought  down  the  sky, 

And  some  would  dive  in  the  lagoon 
Like  sunbeams,  and  all  round  our  isle 
Swim  thro’  the  lovely  crescent  moon, 
Glimpsing,  for  breathless  mile  on  mile, 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND 


91 


The  wild  sea-woods  that  bloomed  below, 
The  rainbow  fish,  the  coral  cave 
Where  vanishing  swift  as  melting  snow 
A mermaid’s  arm  would  wave. 

Then  dashing  shoreward  thro’  the  spray 
On  sun-lit  sands  they  cast  them  down, 
Or  in  the  white  sea-daisies  lay 

With  sun-stained  bodies  rosy-brown, 
Content  to  watch  the  foam-bows  flee 
Across  the  shelving  reefs  and  bars, 
With  wild  eyes  gazing  out  to  sea 
Like  happy  haunted  stars. 


IV 

And  0,  the  wild  sea-maiden 
Drifting  through  the  starlit  air, 

With  white  arms  blossom-laden 
And  the  sea-scents  in  her  hair: 
Sometimes  we  heard  her  singing 
The  midnight  forest  through, 

Or  saw  a soft  hand  flinging 

Blossoms  drenched  with  starry  dew 
Into  the  dreaming  purple  cave; 

And,  sometimes,  far  and  far  away 
Beheld  across  the  glooming  wave 
Beyond  the  dark  lagoon, 

Beyond  the  silvery  foaming  bar, 

The  black  bright  rock  whereon  she  lay 
Like  a honey-coloured  star 
•Singing  to  the  breathless  moon, 

Singing  in  the  silent  night 
Till  the  stars  for  sheer  delight 
Closed  their  eyes,  and  drowsy  birds 
In  the  midmost  forest  spray 
Took  their  heads  from  out  their  wings, 
Thinking — it  is  Ariel  sings 
And  we  must  catch  the  witching  words 
And  sing  them  o’er  by  day. 


92 


UNITY 


V 

And  then,  there  came  a breath,  a breath 
Cool  and  strange  and  dark  as  death, 

A stealing  shadow,  not  of  the  earth 
But  fresh  and  wonder-wild  as  birth. 

I know  not  when  the  hour  began 

That  changed  the  child's  heart  in  the  man, 

Or  when  the  colours  began  to  wane, 

But  all  our  roseate  island  lay 
Stricken,  as  when  an  angel  dies 
With  wings  of  rainbow-tinctured  grain 
Withering,  and  his  radiant  eyes 
Closing.  Pitiless  walls  of  grey 
Gathered  around  us,  a growing  tomb 
From  which  it  seemed  not  death  or  doom 
Could  roll  the  stone  away. 

VI 

Yet — I remember — 

a gleam,  a gleam, 

(Or  ever  I dreamed  that  youth  could  die!) 
Of  sparkling  waves  and  warm  blue  sky 
As  out  of  sleep  into  a dream, 

Wonder- wild  for  the  old  sweet  pain, 

We  sailed  into  that  unknown  sea 
Through  the  gates  of  Eternity. 

Peacefully  close  your  mortal  eyes 
For  ye  shall  wake  to  it  again 
In  Paradise,  in  Paradise. 


UNITY 

I 

Heart  of  my  heart,  the  world  is  young; 

Love  lies  hidden  in  every  rose! 

Every  song  that  the  skylark  sung 

Once,  we  thought,  must  come  to  a close: 


THE  HELL-FLOWER 


93 


Now  we  know  the  spirit  of  song, 

Song  that  is  merged  in  the  chant  of  the  whole, 
Hand  in  hand  as  we  wander  along, 

What  should  we  doubt  of  the  years  that  roll  ? 


II 

Heart  of  my  heart,  we  cannot  die! 

Love  triumphant  in  flower  and  tree, 
Every  life  that  laughs  at  the  sky 
Tells  us  nothing  can  cease  to  be: 

One,  we  are  one  with  a song  to-day, 

One  with  the  clover  that  scents  the  wold, 
One  with  the  Unknown,  far  away, 

One  with  the  stars,  when  earth  grows  old. 


Ill 

Heart  of  my  heart,  we  are  one  with  the  wind, 

One  with  the  clouds  that  are  whirled  o’er  the  lea, 
One  in  many,  0 broken  and  blind, 

One  as  the  waves  are  at  one  with  the  sea! 

Ay!  when  life  seems  scattered  apart, 

Darkens,  ends  as  a tale  that  is  told, 

One,  we  are  one,  O heart  of  my  heart, 

One,  still  one,  while  the  world  grows  old. 


THE  HILL-FLOWER 

It  is  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes — 

So  was  it  sung  one  golden  hour 
Among  the  woodbine  wreaths; 

And  yet,  though  wet  with  living  dew, 

The  song  seemed  far  more  sweet  than  true. 


94 


THE  HILL-FLOWER 


Blind  creatures  of  the  sun  and  air 
I dreamed  it  but  a dream 
That,  like  Narcissus,  would  confer 
With  self  in  every  stream, 

And  to  the  leaves  and  boughs  impart 
The  tremors  of  a human  heart. 

To-day  a golden  pinion  stirred 
The  worlds  Bethesda  pool, 

And  I believed  the  song  I heard 
Nor  put  my  heart  to  school; 

And  through  the  rainbows  of  the  dream 
I saw  the  gates  of  Eden  gleam. 

The  rain  had  ceased.  The  great  hills  rolled 
In  silence  to  the  deep: 

The  gorse  in  waves  of  green  and  gold 
Perfumed  their  lonely  sleep; 

And,  at  my  feet,  one  elfin  flower 
Drooped,  blind  with  glories  of  the  shower. 

I stooped — a giant  from  the  sky — 

Above  its  piteous  shield, 

And,  suddenly,  the  dream  went  by, 

And  there — was  heaven  revealed! 

I stooped  to  pluck  it;  but  my  hand 
Paused,  mid-way,  o’er  its  fairyland. 

Not  of  mine  own  was  that  strange  voice, 

“ Pluck — tear  a star  from  heaven!” 

Mine  only  was  the  awful  choice 
To  scoff  and  be  forgiven 
Or  hear  the  very  grass  I trod 
Whispering  the  gentle  thoughts  of  God. 

I know  not  if  the  hill-flower’s  place 
Beneath  that  mighty  sky, 

Its  lonely  and  aspiring  grace, 

Its  beauty  born  to  die, 

Touched  me,  I know  it  seemed  to  be 
Cherished  by  all  Eternity. 


ACTION 


95 


Man,  doomed  to  crush  at  every  stride 
A hundred  lives  like  this 
Which  by  their  weakness  were  allied, 

If  by  naught  else,  to  his, 

Can  only  for  a flash  discern 

What  passion  through  the  whole  doth  yearn. 


Not  into  words  can  I distil 
The  pity  or  the  pain 
Which  hallowing  all  that  lonely  hill 
Cried  out  “ Refrain,  refrain,” 

Then  breathed  from  earth  and  sky  and  sea, 
“Herein  you  did  it  unto  Me.” 


Somewhile  that  hill  was  heaven’s  own  breast, 
The  flower  its  joy  and  grief, 

Hugged  close  and  fostered  and  caressed 
In  every  brief  bright  leaf : 

And,  ere  I went  thro’  sun  and  dew, 

I leant  and  gently  touched  it,  too. 


ACTION 

‘ Who  stood  beside  the  naked  Swift-footed 
And  bound  his  forehead  with  Proserpine’s  hair.” 

— Browning  ( Pauline ) 


I 

Light  of  beauty , 0,  “perfect  in  whiteness ,” 

Softly  suffused  thro ’ the  world’s  dark  shrouds , 
Kindling  them  all  as  they  pass  by  thy  brightness , — - 
Hills,  men , cities, — a pageant  of  clouds, 

Thou  to  whom  Life  and  Time  surrender 
All  earth’s  forms  as  to  heaven’s  deep  care, 

Who  shall  pierce  to  thy  naked  splendour, 

Bind  his  brows  with  thy  hair? 


96 


ACTION 


II 

Swift  thro,  the  sprays  when  Spring  grew  bolder 
Young  Actseon  swept  to  the  chase! 

Golden  the  fawn-skin,  back  from  the  shoulder 
Flowing,  set  free  the  limbs’  lithe  grace, 

Muscles  of  satin  that  rippled  like  sunny 
Streams — a hunter,  a young  athlete, 

Scattering  dews  and  crushing  out  honey 
Under  his  sandalled  feet. 

III 

Sunset  softened  the  crags  of  the  mountain, 

Silence  melted  the  hunter’s  heart, 

Only  the  sob  of  a falling  fountain 
Pulsed  in. a deep  ravine  apart: 

All  the  forest  seemed  waiting  breathless, 

Eager  to  whisper  the  dying  day 
Some  rich  word  that  should  utter  the  deathless 
Secret  of  youth  and  May. 

IV 

Down,  as  to  May  thro’  the  flowers  that  attend  her, 
Slowly,  on  tip-toe,  down  the  ravine 
Fair  as  the  sun-god,  poising  a slender 
Spear  like  a moon-shaft  silver  and  green, 

Stole  he!  Ah,  did  the  oak-wood  ponder 
Youth’s  glad  dream  in  its  heart  of  gloom? 

Dryad  or  fawn  was  it  started  yonder? 

Ah,  what  whisper  of  doom? 

V 

Gold,  thro’  the  ferns  as  he  gazed  and  listened, 
Shone  the  soul  of  the  wood’s  deep  dream, 

One  bright  glade  and  a pool  that  glistened 
Full  in  the  face  of  the  sun’s  last  gleam, — 


ACTION 


9? 


Gold  in  the  heart  of  a violet  dingle! 

Young  Actaeon,  beware!  beware! 

Who  shall  track,  while  the  pulses  tingle. 
Spring  to  her  woodland  lair? 


VI 

See,  at  his  feet,  what  mystical  quiver, 

Maiden’s  girdle  and  robe  of  snow, 

Tossed  aside  by  the  green  glen-river 
Ere  she  bathed  in  the  pool  below? 

All  the  fragance  of  April  meets  him 

Full  in  the  face  with  its  young  sweet  breath; 
Yet,  as  he  steals  to  the  glade,  there  greets  him— 
Hush,  what  whisper  of  death? 


VII 

Lo,  in  the  violets,  lazily  dreaming, 

Young  Diana,  the  huntress,  lies: 

One  white  side  thro’  the  violets  gleaming 
Heaves  and  sinks  with  her  golden  sighs, 
One  white  breast  like  a diamond  crownet 
Couched  in  a velvet  casket  glows, 

One  white  arm,  tho’  the  violets  drown  it, 
Thrills  their  purple  with  rose. 


VIII 

Buried  in  fragrance,  the  half-moon  flashes, 
Beautiful,  clouded,  from  head  to  heel: 
One  white  foot  in  the  warm  wave  plashes, 
Violets  tremble  and  half  reveal, 

Half  conceal,  as  they  kiss,  the  slender 
Slope  and  curve  of  her  sleeping  limbs ; 
Violets  bury  one  half  the  splendour 
Still,  as  thro’  heaven,  she  swims. 


7 


98 


ACTION 


IX 

Cold  as  the  white  rose  waking  at  daybreak 
Lifts  the  light  of  her  lovely  face, 

Poised  on  an  arm  she  watches  the  spray  break 
Over  the  slim  white  ankle’s  grace, 

Watches  the  wave  that  sleeplessly  tosses 
Kissing  the  pure  foot’s  pink  sea-shells, 
Watches  the  long-leaved  heaven-dark  mosses 
Drowning  their  star-bright  bells. 


X 

Swift  as  the  Spring  where  the  South  has  brightened 
Earth  with  bloom  in  one  passionate  night, 

Swift  as  the  violet  heavens  had  lightened 
Swift  to  perfection,  blinding,  white, 

Dian  arose:  and  Actseon  saw  her, 

Only  he  since  the  world  began! 

Only  in  dreams  could  Endymion  draw  her 
Down  to  the  heart  of  man. 


XI 

Fair  as  the  dawn  upon  Himalaya 

Anger  flashed  from  her  cheek’s  pure  rose, 
Alpine  peaks  at  the  passage  of  Maia 

Flushed  not  fair  as  her  breasts’  white  snows. 
Ah,  fair  form  of  the  heaven’s  completeness, 
Who  shall  sing  thee  or  who  shall  say 
Whence  that  “high  perfection  of  sweetness,” 
Perfect  to  save  or  slay? 


XII 

Perfect  in  beauty , beauty  the  portal 

Here  on  earth  to  the  world’s  deep  shrine. 
Beauty  hidden  in  all  things  mortal , 

Who  shall  mingle  his  eyes  with  thine? 


ACTION 


99 


Thou , to  whom  Life  and  Death  surrender 
AU  earth's  forms  as  to  heaven's  deep  care , 
Who  shall  pierce  to  thy  naked  splendour , 
Bind  his  brows  with  thy  hair? 


XIII 

Beauty,  perfect  in  blinding  whiteness, 

Softly  suffused  thro'  the  world's  dark  shrouds, 
Kindling  them  all  as  they  pass  by  her  brightness, — 
Hills,  men,  cities, — a pageant  of  clouds , 

She,  the  unchanging,  shepherds  their  changes, 

Bids  them  mingle  and  form  and  flow, 

Flowers  and  flocks  and  the  great  hill-ranges 
Follow  her  cry  and  go . 


XIY 

Swift  as  the  sweet  June  lightning  flashes, 
Down  she  stoops  to  the  purpling  pool, 
Sudden  and  swift  her  white  hand  dashes 
Rainbow  mists  in  his  eyes!  “ Ah,  fool! 
Hunter,”  she  cries  to  the  young  Actseon, 
“ Change  to  the  hunted,  rise  and  fly, 
Swift  ere  the  wild  pack  utter  its  paean, 
Swift  for  thy  hounds  draw  nigh!” 


XV 

Lo,  as  he  trembles,  the  greenwood  branches 
Dusk  his  brows  with  their  antlered  pride! 
Lo,  as  a stag  thrown  back  on  its  haunches 
Quivers,  with  velvet  nostrils  wide, 

Lo,  he  changes!  The  soft  fur  darkens 
Down  to  the  fetlock’s  lifted  fear! — 

Hounds  are  baying! — he  snuffs  and  hearkens, 
“Fly,  for  the  stag  is  here!” 


100 


ACTION 


XVI 

Swift  as  he  leapt  thro’  the  ferns,  Actseon, 

Young  Actaeon,  the  lordly  stag, 

Full  and  mellow  the  deep-mouthed  paean 
Swelled  behind  him  from  crag  to  crag: 

Well  he  remembered  that  sweet  throat  leading, 

WTild  with  terror  he  raced  and  strained, 

On  thro’  the  darkness,  thorn-swept,  bleeding: 

Ever  they  gained  and  gained! 

XVII 

Death,  like  a darkling  huntsman  holloed — 

Swift,  Actaeon! — desire  and  shame 
Leading  the  pack  of  the  passions  followed. 

Red  jaws  frothing  with  white-hot  flame, 

Volleying  out  of  the  glen,  they  leapt  up, 

Snapped  and  fell  short  of  the  foam-flecked  thighs*  . 
Inch  by  terrible  inch  they  crept  up, 

Shadows  with  blood-shot  eyes. 

XVIII 

Still  with  his  great  heart  bursting  asunder 
Still  thro’  the  night  he  struggled  and  bled; 
Suddenly  round  him  the  pack’s  low  thunder 
Surged,  the  hounds  that  his  own  hand  fed 
Fastened  in  his  throat,  with  red  jaws  drinking 
Deep! — for  a moment  his  antlered  pride 
Soared  o’er  their  passionate  seas,  then,  sinking, 

Fell  for  the  fangs  to  divide. 

XIX 

Light  of  beaviy , 0,  perfect  in  whiteness , 

Softly  suffused  thro ’ the  years ’ dark  veils , 

Kindling  them  all  as  they  pass  by  her  brightness , 

Filling  our  hearts  with  her  old-world  tales 3 


LUCIFER'S  FEAST 


101 


She , the  unchanging , shepherds  their  changes , 
Bids  them  mingle  and  form  and  flow , 
Floivers  and  flocks  and  the  great  hill-ranges 
Follow  her  cry  and  go. 

* XX 

Still,  in  the  violets,  lazily  dreaming 
Young  Diana,  the  huntress,  lies : 

One  white  side  thro’  the  violets  gleaming 
Heaves  and  sinks  with  her  golden  sighs; 
One  white  breast  like  a diamond  crownet 
Couched  in  a velvet  casket  glows, 

One  white  arm,  tho’  the  violets  drown  it, 
Thrills  their  purple  with  rose. 


LUCIFER’S  FEAST 

(A  EUROPEAN  NIGHTMARE . ) 

To  celebrate  the  ascent  of  man,  one  gorgeous  night 
Lucifer  gave  a feast. 

Its  world-bewildering  light 

Danced  in  Belshazzar’s  tomb,  and  the  old  kings  dead  and  gone 
Felt  their  dust  creep  to  jewels  in  crumbling  Babylon. 

Two  nations  were  His  guests — the  top  and  flower  of  Time, 

The  fore-front  of  an  age  which  now  had  learned  to  climb 
The  slopes  where  Newton  knelt,  the  heights  that  Shakespeare 
trod, 

The  mountains  whence  Beethoven  rolled  the  voice  of  God. 

Lucifer’s  f easting-lamps  were  like  the  morning  stars, 

But  at  the  board-head  shone  the  blood-red  lamp  of  Mars. 

League  upon  glittering  league,  white  front  and  flabby  face 
Bent  o’er  the  groaning  board.  Twelve  brave  men  droned  the 
grace; 

But  with  instinctive  tact,  in  courtesy  to  their  Host, 

Omitted  God  the  Son  and  God  the  Holy  Ghost, 

And  to  the  God  of  Battles  raised  their  humble  prayers. 


102 


LUCIFER’S  FEAST 


Then,  then,  like  thunder,  all  the  guests  drew  up  their  chairs. 
By  each  a drinking-cup,  yellow,  almost,  as  gold, 

( The  blue  eye-sockets  gave  the  thumbs  a good  firm  hold) 

Adorned  the  flowery  board.  Could  even  brave  men  shrink? 

Why  if  the  cups  were  skulls,  they  hafd  red  wine  to  drink! 
And  had  not  each  a napkin,  white  and  peaked  and  proud, 
Waiting  to  wipe  his  mouth?  A napkin?  Nay,  a shroud! 
This  was  a giant’s  feast,  on  hell’s  imperial  scale. 

The  blades  glistened. 

The  shrouds — 0,  in  one  snowy  gale, 
The  pink  hands  fluttered  them  out,  and  spread  them  on  their 
knees. 

Who  knew  what  gouts  might  drop,  what  filthy  flakes  of  grease, 
Now  that  o’er  every  shoulder,  through  the  coiling  steam, 
Inhuman  faces  peered,  with  wolfish  eyes  a-gleam, 

And  grey-faced  vampire  Lusts  that  whinneyed  in  each  ear 
Hints  of  the  hideous  courses? 

None  may  name  them  here? 
None?  And  we  may  not  see!  The  distant  cauldrons  cloak 
The  lava-coloured  plains  with  clouds  of  umber  smoke. 

Nay,  by  that  shrapnel-light,  by  those  wild  shooting  stars 
That  rip  the  clouds  away  with  fiercer  fire  than  Mars, 

They  are  painted  sharp  as  death.  If  these  can  eat  and  drink 
Chatter  and  laugh  and  rattle  their  knives,  why  should  we  shrink 
From  empty  names?  We  know  those  ghastly  gleams  are  true: 
Why  should  Christ  cry  again — They  know  not  what  they  do? 
They,  heirs  of  all  the  ages,  sons  of  Shakespeare’s  land, 

They,  brothers  of  Beethoven,  smiling,  cultured,  bland, 
Whisper  with  sidling  heads  to  ghouls  with  bloody  lips. 

Each  takes  upon  his  plate  a small  round  thing  that  drips 
And  quivers,  a child’s  heart. 


Miles  on  miles 

The  glittering  table  bends  o’er  that  first  course,  and  smiles; 
For,  through  the  wreaths  of  smoke,  the  grey  Lusts  bear  aloft 
The  second  course,  on  leaden  chargers,  large  and  soft, 

Bodies  of  women,  steaming  in  an  opal  mist, 

Red-branded  here  and  there  where  vampire-teeth  have  kissed,. 


LUCIFER'S  FEAST 


103 


But  white  as  pig’s  flesh,  newly  killed,  and  cleanly  dressed, 

A lemon  in  each  mouth  and  roses  round  each  breast, 

Emblems  to  show  how  deeply,  sweetly  satisfied, 

The  breasts,  the  lips,  can  sleep,  whose  children  fought  and 
died 

For — what?  For  country?  God,  once  more  Thy  shrapnel- 
light! 

Let  those  dark  slaughter-houses  burst  upon  our  sight, 

These  kitchens  are  too  clean,  too  near  the  tiring  room! 

Let  Thy  white  shrapnel  rend  those  filthier  veils  of  gloom, 

Rip  the  last  fogs  away  and  strip  the  foul  thing  bare! 

One  lightning-picture — see — yon  bayonet-bristling  square 
Mown  down,  mown  down,  mown  down,  wild  swathes  of  crimson 
wheat, 

The  white-eyed  charge,  the  blast,  the  terrible  retreat, 

The  blood-greased  wheels  of  cannon  thundering  into  line 
O’er  that  red  writhe  of  pain,  rent  groin  and  shattered  spine, 
The  moaning  faceless  face  that  kissed  its  child  last  night, 

The  raw  pulp  of  the  heart  that  beat  for  love’s  delight, 

The  heap  of  twisting  bodies,  clotted  and  congealed 
In  one  red  huddle  of  anguish  on  the  loathsome  field, 

The  seas  of  obscene  slaughter  spewing  their  blood-red  yeast, 
Multitudes  pouring  out  their  entrails  for  the  feast, 

Knowing  not  why,  but  dying,  they  think,  for  some  high  cause, 
Dying  for  “ hearth  and  home,”  their  flags,  their  creeds,  their 
laws. 

Ask  of  the  Bulls  and  Bears,  ask  if  they  understand 
How  both  great  grappling  armies  bleed  for  their  own  land; 

For  in  that  faith  they  die!  These  hoodwinked  thousands  die 
Simply  as  heroes,  gulled  by  hell’s  profoundest  lie. 

Who  keeps  the  slaughter-house?  Not  these,  not  these  who 
gain 

Nought  but  the  sergeant’s  shilling  and  the  homeless  pain ! 

Who  puils  the  ropes?  Not  these,  who  buy  their  crust  of  bread 
With  the  salt  sweat  of  labour!  These  but  bury  their  dead 
Then  sweat  again  for  food! 

Christ,  is  the  hour  not  come, 

To  send  forth  one  great  voice  and  strike  this  dark  hell  dumb, 

A voice  to  out-crash  the  cannon,  one  united  cry 

To  sweep  these  wild-beast  standards  down  that  stain  the  sky. 


104 


LUCIFER’S  FEAST 


To  hurl  these  Lions  and  Bears  and  Eagles  to  their  doom, 
One  voice,  one  heart,  one  soul,  one  fire  that  shall  consume 
The  last  red  reeking  shreds  that  flicker  against  the  blast 
And  purge  the  Augean  stalls  we  call  “our  glorious  past”! 
One  voice  from  dawn  and  sunset,  one  almighty  voice, 
Full-throated  as  the  sea — ye  sons  o’  the  earth,  rejoice! 
Beneath  the  all-loving  sky,  confederate  kings  ye  stand, 
Fling  open  wide  the  gates  o’  the  world-wide  Fatherland. 


Poor  fools,  we  dare  not  dream  it!  We  that  pule  and  whine 
Of  art  and  science,  we,  whose  great  souls  leave  no  shrine 
Unshattered,  we  that  climb  the  Sinai  Shakespeare  trod, 

The  Olivets  where  Beethoven  walked  and  talked  with  God, 
We  that  have  weighed  the  stars  and  reined  the  lightning,  we 
That  stare  thro’  heaven  and  plant  our  footsteps  in  the  sea. 
We  whose  great  souls  have  risen  so  far  above  the  creeds 
That  we  can  jest  at  Christ  and  leave  Him  where  He  bleeds, 
A legend  of  the  dark,  a tale  so  false  or  true 
That  howsoe’er  we  jest  at  Him,  the  jest  sounds  new. 

(Our  weariest  dinner-tables  never  tire  of  that! 

Let  the  clown  sport  with  Christ,  never  the  jest  falls  fiat!) 
Poor  fools,  we  dare  not  dream  a dream  so  strange,  so  great, 
As  on  this  ball  of  dust  to  found  one  “world-wide  state,” 

To  float  one  common  flag  above  our  little  lands, 

And  ere  our  little  sun  grows  cold  to  clasp  our  hands 
In  friendship  for  a moment! 


Hark,  the  violins 

Are  swooning  through  the  mist.  The  great  blue  band  begins, 
Playing,  in  dainty  scorn,  a hymn  we  used  to  know, 

Plow  long  was  it,  ten  thousand  thousand  years  ago? 

There  is  a green  hill  far  away 
Beside  a City  wall! — 

And  O,  the  music  swung  a-stray 
With  a solemn  dying  fall; 

For  it  was  a pleasant  jest  to  play 
Hymns  in  the  Devil’s  Hall. 


LUCIFER’S  FEAST 


105 


And  yet,  and  yet,  if  aught  be  true, 

This  dream  we  left  behind, 

This  childish  Christ,  be-mocked  anew 
To  please  the  men  of  mind, 

Yet  hung  so  far  beyond  the  flight 
Of  our  most  lofty  thought 
That — Lucifer  laughed  at  us  that  night* 
Not  with  us,  as  he  ought. 

Beneath  the  blood-red  lamp  of  Mars, 
Cloaked  with  a scarlet  cloud 
He  gazed  along  the  line  of  stars 
Above  the  guzzling  crowd: 

Sinister,  thunder-scarred,  he  raised 
His  great  world-wandering  eyes. 

And  on  some  distant  vision  gazed 
Beyond  our  cloudy  skies. 

“ Poor  bats,' 9 he  sneered,  “ their  jungle-dark 
Civilisation’s  noon ! 

Poor  wolves,  that  hunt  in  packs  and  bark 
Beneath  the  grinning  moon; 

Poor  fools , that  cast  the  cross  away , 

Before  they  break  the  sword; 

Poor  sots,  who  take  the  night  for  day; 

Have  mercy  on  me,  Lord . 

u Beyond  their  wisdom9 s deepest  skies 
I see  Thee  hanging  yet, 

The  love  still  hungering  in  Thine  eyes , 

Thy  plaited  crown  still  wet! 

Thine  arms  outstretched  to  fold  them  all 
Beneath  Thy  sheltering  breast; 

But — since  they  will  not  hear  Thy  call, 

Lord,  I forbear  to  jest. 

uLord,  1 forbear!  The  day  I fell 
I fell  at  least  thro9  pride! 

Rather  than  these  should  share  my  hell 
Take  me,  thou  Crucified! 


106 


LUCIFER’S  FEAST 


0,  let  me  share  Thy  cross  of  grief , 
And  let  me  work  Thy  will , 

As  morning  star,  or  dying  thief. 
Thy  fallen  angel  still. 


“Lord,  1 forbear!  For  Thee,  at  least, 

In  pain  so  like  to  mine, 

The  mighty  meaning  of  their  feast 
Is  plain  as  bread  and  wine: 

0,  smile  once  more,  far  off,  alone! 

Since  these  nor  hear  nor  see, 

From  my  deep  hell,  so  like  Thine  own, 
Lord  Christ,  1 pity  Thee.” 

Yet  once  again,  he  thought,  they  shall  be  fully  tried, 

If  they  be  devils  or  fools  too  light  for  hell's  deep  pride. 


The  champ  of  teeth  was  over,  and  the  reeking  room 
Gaped  for  the  speeches  now.  Across  the  sulphurous  fume 
Lucifer  gave  a sign.  The  guests  stood  thundering  up! 
“Gentlemen,  charge  your  glasses!" 

Every  yellow  cup 

Frothed  with  the  crimson  blood.  They  brandished  them  on 
high! 

“Gentlemen,  drink  to  those  who  fight  and  know  not  why!" 


And  in  the  bubbling  blood  each  nose  was  buried  deep. 

“ Gentlemen,  drink  to  those  who  sowed  that  we  might  reap! 
Drink  to  the  pomp,  pride,  circumstance,  of  glorious  war, 
The  grand  self-sacrifice  that  made  us  what  we  are ! 

And  drink  to  the  peace-lovers  who  believe  that  peace 
Is  War,  red,  bloody  War;  for  War  can  never  cease 
Unless  we  drain  the  veins  of  peace  to  fatten  War! 
Gentlemen,  drink  to  the  brains  that  made  us  what  we  are! 
Drink  to  self-sacrifice  that  helps  us  all  to  shake 
The  world  with  tramp  of  armies.  Germany,  awake! 
England,  awake!  Shakespeare's,  Beethoven's  Fatherland, 
Are  you  not  both  aware,  do  you  not  understand, 


VETERANS 


107 


Self-sacrifice  is  competition?  It  is  the  law 
Of  Life,  and  so,  though  both  of  you  are  wholly  right, 
Self-sacrifice  requires  that  both  of  you  should  fight.” 

And  “Hoch!  hoch!  hoch!”  they  cried;  and  “Hip,  hip,  hip. 
Hurrah!” 


This  raised  the  gorge  of  Lucifer.  With  one  deep  “Bah,” 
Above  those  croaking  toads  he  towered  like  Gabriel; 


Then  straightway  left  the  table  and  went  home  to  hell. 


VETERANS 

(WRITTEN  FOR  THE  RELIEF  FUND  OF  THE  CRIMEAN 
VETERANS.) 


I 

When  the  last  charge  sounds 
And  the  battle  thunders  o’er  the  plain, 

Thunders  o’er  the  trenches  where  the  red  streams  flow, 
Will  it  not  be  well  with  us, 

Veterans,  veterans, 

If,  beneath  your  torn  old  flag,  we  burst  upon  the  foe? 


II 


When  the  last  post  sounds 
And  the  night  is  on  the  battle-field, 

Night  and  rest  at  last  from  all  the  tumult  of  our  wars, 
Will  it  not  be  well  with  us, 

Veterans,  veterans, 

If,  with  duty  done  like  yours,  we  lie  beneath  the  stars? 


108 


THE  QUEST  RENEWED 
III 


When  the  great  reveille  sounds 
For  the  terrible  last  Sabaoth, 

All  the  legions  of  the  dead  shall  hear  the  trumpet  ring! 
Will  it  not  be  well  with  us, 

Veterans,  veterans, 

If,  beneath  your  torn  old  flag,  we  rise  to  meet  our  King? 


THE  QUEST  RENEWED 

It  is  too  soon,  too  soon,  though  time  be  brief, 

Quite  to  forswear  thy  quest, 

O Light,  whose  farewell  dyes  the  falling  leaf, 

Fades  thro'  the  fading  west. 

Thou'rt  flown  too  soon!  I stretch  my  hands  out  still, 
O,  Light  of  Life,  to  Thee, 

Who  leav'st  an  Olivet  in  each  far  blue  hill, 

A sorrow  on  every  sea. 

It  is  too  soon,  here  while  the  loud  world  roars 
For  wealth  and  power  and  fame, 

Too  soon  quite  to  forget  those  other  shores 
Afar,  from  whence  I came; 

Too  soon  even  to  forget  the  first  dear  dream 
Dreamed  far  away,  when  tears  could  freely  flow; 

And  life  seemed  infinite,  as  that  sky's  great  gleam 
Deepened,  to  which  I go; 

Too  soon  even  to  forget  the  fluttering  fire 
And  those  old  books  beside  the  friendly  hearth, 

When  time  seemed  endless  as  my  own  desire, 

And  angels  walked  our  earth; 

Too  soon  quite  to  forget  amid  the  throng 

What  once  the  silent  hills,  the  sounding  beach 

Taught  me — where  singing  was  the  prize  of  song, 

And  heaven  within  my  reach. 


THE  LIGHTS  OF  HOME 


109 


It  is  too  soon  amid  the  cynic  sneers, 

The  sophist  smiles,  the  greedy  mouths  and  hands, 
Quite  to  forget  the  light  of  those  dead  years 
And  my  lost  mountain-lands; 


Too  soon  to  lose  that  everlasting  hope 

(For  so  it  seemed)  of  youth  in  love’s  pure  reign, 
Though  while  I linger  on  this  darkening  slope 
Nought  seems  quite  worth  the  pain. 


ft  is  too  soon  for  me  to  break  that  trust, 

O,  Light  of  Light,  flown  far  past  sun  and  moon, 
Burn  back  thro’  this  dark  panoply  of  dust; 

Or  let  me  follow — soon. 


THE  LIGHTS  OF  HOME 

Pilot,  how  far  from  home? — 

Not  far,  not  far  to-night, 

A flight  of  spray,  a sea-bird’s  flight, 
A flight  of  tossing  foam, 

And  then  the  lights  of  home! — 


And,  yet  again,  how  far? 

And  seems  the  way  so  brief? 

Those  lights  beyond  the  roaring  reef 
Were  lights  of  moon  and  star, 

Far,  far,  none  knows  how  far! 


Pilot,  how  far  from  home? — 

The  great  stars  pass  away 
Before  Him  as  a flight  of  spray, 
Moons  as  a flight  of  foam! 

I see  the  lights  of  home. 


110 


'TWEEN  THE  LIGHTS 


NEW  POEMS 

’TWEEN  THE  LIGHTS 


**The  Nine  men’s  morrice  is  filled  up  with  mud  . . . 
From  our  debate,  from  our  dissension.” 

— Shakespeare 


I 


Fairies,  come  back!  We  have  not  seen 
Your  dusky  foot-prints  on  the  green 
This  many  a year.  No  frolic  now 
Shakes  the  dew  from  the  hawthorn-bough. 
Never  a man  and  never  a maid 
Spies  you  in  the  blue-bell  shade; 

Yet,  where  the  nine  men’s  morrice  stood, 
Our  spades  are  clearing  out  the  mud. 

Chorus . — Come , little  irised  heraldsy  fling 

Earths  Eden-gates  apart,  and  sing 
The  bright  eyes  and  the  cordial  hand 
Of  brotherhood  thro ’ all  our  land . 

II 

Fairies,  come  back!  Our  pomp  of  gold, 

Our  blazing  noon,  grows  grey  and  old; 

The  scornful  glittering  ages  wane: 

Forgive,  forget,  come  back  again. 

This  is  our  England’s  Hallowe’en! 

Come,  trip  it,  trip  it  o’er  the  green, 

Trip  it,  amidst  the  roaring  mart, 

In  the  still  meadows  of  the  heart. 

Come,  little  irised  heralds,  fling 
Earth’s  Eden-gates  apart,  and  sing 
The  bright  eyes  and  the  cordial  hand 
Of  brotherhood  thro’  all  our  land . 


'TWEEN  THE  LIGHTS 


111 


III 

Fairies,  come  back!  Once  more  the  gleams 
Of  your  lost  Eden  haunt  our  dreams, 

Where  Evil,  at  the  touch  of  Good, 

Withers  in  the  Enchanted  Wood: 

Fairies,  come  back!  Drive  gaunt  Despair 
And  Famine  to  their  ghoulish  lair! 

Tap  at  each  heart's  bright  window-pane 
Thro'  merry  England  once  again. 

Come , little  irised  heralds , fling 
Earth’s  Eden-gates  apart , and  sing 
The  bright  eyes  and  the  cordial  hand 
Of  brotherhood  thro  ’ all  our  land . 

IV 

Fairies,  come  back!  And,  if  you  bring 
That  long-expected  song  to  sing, 

Ciss  needs  not,  ere  she  welcomes  you, 

To  find  a sixpence  in  her  shoe! 

If,  of  the  mud  he  clears  away, 

Tom  bears  the  ignoble  stain  to-day, 

Come  back,  and  he  will  not  forget 
The  heavens  that  yearn  beyond  us  yet. 

Come , little  irised  heralds , fling 
Earth’s  Eden-gates  apart , and  sing 
The  bright  eyes  and  the  cordial  hand 
Of  brotherhood  thro’  all  our  land. 

V 

Yet,  if  for  this  you  will  not  come, 

Your  friends,  the  children,  call  you  home. 
Fairies,  they  wear  no  May-day  crowns, 
Your  playmates  in  those  grim  black  towns 
Look,  fairies,  how  they  peak  and  pine, 

How  hungrily  their  great  eyes  shine! 

From  fevered  alley  and  foetid  lane 
Plead  the  thin  arms — Come  back  again! 


112 


TWEEN  THE  LIGHTS 


Come , little  irised  heralds , fling 
Earth’s  Eden-gates  apart , and  sing 
The  bright  eyes  and  the  cordial  hand 
Of  brotherhood  thro 1 all  our  land. 


VI 

We  have  named  the  stars  and  weighed  the  moon* 
Counted  our  gains  and  . . . lost  the  boon, 

If  this  be  the  end  of  all  our  lore — 

To  draw  the  blind  and  close  the  door! 

0,  lift  the  latch,  slip  in  between 

The  things  which  we  have  heard  and  seen, 

Slip  thro’  the  fringes  of  the  blind 
Into  the  souls  of  all  mankind. 


Come , little  irised  heralds , fling 
Earth’s  Eden-gates  apart , and  sing 
The  bright  eyes  and  the  cordial  hand 
Of  brotherhood  thro’  all  our  land. 


VII 

Fairies,  come  back!  Our  wisdom  dies 
Beneath  your  deeper,  starrier  skies! 

We  have  reined  the  lightning,  probed  the  flower: 
Bless,  as  of  old,  our  twilight  hour! 

Bring  dreams,  and  let  the  dreams  be  true, 

Bring  hope  that  makes  each  heart  anew, 

Bring  love  that  knits  all  hearts  in  one; 

Then — sing  of  heaven  and  bring  the  sun! 


Come , little  irised  heralds , fling 
Earth’s  Eden-gates  apart , and  sing 
The  bright  eyes  and  the  cordial  hand 
Of  brotherhood  thro’  all  our  land . 


CREATION 


113 


CREATION 

In  the  beginning,  there  was  nought 
But  heaven,  one  Majesty  of  Light, 

Beyond  all  speech,  beyond  all  thought, 

Beyond  all  depth,  beyond  all  height, 

Consummate  heaven,  the  first  and  last, 

Enfolding  in  its  perfect  prime 
No  future  rushing  to  the  past, 

But  one  rapt  Now,  that  knew  not  Space  or  Time. 

Formless  it  was,  being  gold  on  gold, 

And  void — but  with  that  complete  Life 
Where  music  could  no  wings  unfold 
Till  lo,  God  smote  the  strings  of  strife! 

“ Myself  unto  Myself  am  Throne, 

Myself  unto  Myself  am  Thrall 
I that  am  All  am  all  alone,” 

He  said,  “ Yea,  I have  nothing,  having  all.” 

And,  gathering  round  His  mount  of  bliss 
The  angel-squadrons  of  His  will, 

He  said,  “One  battle  yet  there  is 
To  win,  one  vision  to  fulfil ! 

Since  heaven  where'er  I gaze  expands, 

And  power  that  knows  no  strife  or  cry, 

Weakness  shall  bind  and  pierce  My  hands 
And  make  a world  for  Me  wherein  to  die. 

“'All  might,  all  vastness  and  all  glory 
Being  Mine,  I must  descend  and  make 
Out  of  My  heart  a song,  a story 

Of  little  hearts  that  burn  and  break; 

Out  of  My  passion  without  end 
I will  make  little  azure  seas, 

And  into  small  sad  fields  descend 

And  make  green  grass,  white  daisies,  rustling  trees.” 

Then  shrank  His  angels,  knowing  He  thrust 
His  arms  out  East  and  West  and  gave 
For  every  little  dream  of  dust 
Part  of  His  life  as  to  a grave! 


114 


CREATION 


" Enough , 0 Father , for  Thy  words 

Have  pierced  Thy  hands!”  But,  low  and  sweet, 

He  said  ‘'Sunsets  and  streams  and  birds, 

And  drifting  clouds !” — The  purple  stained  His  feet. — 

* 'Enough !”  His  angels  moaned  in  fear, 

" Father , Thy  words  have  pierced  Thy  side!” 

He  whispered,  “ Roses  shall  grow  there, 

And  there  must  be  a hawthorn-tide, 

And  ferns,  dewy  at  dawn,”  and  still 

They  moaned — " Enough , the  red  drops  bleed!” 
"And,”  sweet  and  low,  "on  every  hill,” 

He  said,  "I  will  have  flocks  and  lambs  to  lead.” 

His  angels  bowed  their  heads  beneath 

Their  wings  till  that  great  pang  was  gone: 
ilPour  not  Thy  soul  out  unto  Death!” 

They  moaned,  and  still  His  Love  flowed  on, 

" There  shall  be  small  white  wings  to  stray 
From  bliss  to  bliss,  from  bloom  to  bloom, 

And  blue  flowers  in  the  wheat;  and — ” "Stay! 

Speak  not”  they  cried,  " the  word  that  seals  Thy  tomb /” 

He  spake — "I  have  thought  of  a little  child 
That  I will  have  there  to  embark 
On  small  adventures  in  the  wild, 

And  front  slight  perils  in  the  dark; 

And  I will  hide  from  him  and  lure 

His  laughing  eyes  with  suns  and  moons, 

And  rainbows  that  shall  not  endure; 

And — when  he  is  weary,  sing  him  drowsy  tunes.” 

His  angels  fell  before  Him  weeping 

" Enough!  Tempt  not  the  Gates  of  Hell!” 

He  said,  "His  soul  is  in  his  keeping 
That  we  may  love  each  other  well, 

And  lest  the  dark  too  much  affright  him, 

I will  strow  countless  little  stars 
Across  his  childish  skies  to  light  him 

That  he  may  wage  in  peace  his  mimic  wars; 


THE  PEACEMAKER 


113 


“And  oft  forget  Me  as  he  plays 

With  swords  and  childish  merchandize, 

Or  with  his  elfin  balance  weighs, 

Or  with  his  foot-rule  metes,  the  skies; 

Or  builds  his  castles  by  the  deep, 

Or  tunnels  through  the  rocks,  and  then — - 
Turn  to  Me  as  he  falls  asleep, 

And,  in  his  dreams,  feel  for  My  hand  again. 

“And  when  he  is  older  he  shall  be 
My  friend  and  walk  here  at  My  side; 

Or — when  he  wills — grow  young  with  Me, 

And,  to  that  happy  world  where  once  we  died 
Descending  through  the  calm  blue  weather, 

Buy  life  once  more  with  our  immortal  breath, 
And  wander  through  the  little  fields  together, 
And  taste  of  Love  and  Death.” 


THE  PEACEMAKER. 

Silently  over  his  vast  imperial  seas, 

Over  his  sentinel  fleets  the  Shadow  swept 
And  all  his  armies  slept. 

There  was  but  one  quick  challenge  at  the  gate, 

Then — the  cold  menace  of  that  out-stretched  hand, 
Waving  aside  the  panoplies  of  State, 

Brought  the  last  faithful  watchers  to  their  knees, 

And  lightning  flashed  the  grief  from  land  to  land. 

Mourn,  Britain,  mourn,  not  for  a king  alone! 

This  was  the  people’s  king!  His  purple  throne 

Was  in  their  hearts.  They  shared  it.  Millions  of  swords 
Could  not  have  shaken  it!  Sharers  of  this  doom, 

This  democratic  doom  which  all  men  know, 

His  Common-weal,  in  this  great  common  woe, 

Veiling  its  head  in  the  universal  gloom, 

With  that  majestic  grief  which  knows  not  words, 

Bows  o’er  a world-wide  tomb. 


116 


THE  PEACEMAKER 


Mourn,  Europe,  for  our  England  set  this  Crown 
In  splendour  past  the  reach  of  temporal  power, 
Secure  above  the  thunders  of  the  hour, 

A sun  in  the  great  skies  of  her  renown, 

A sun  to  hold  her  wheeling  worlds  in  one 
By  its  own  course  of  duty  pre-ordained, 

Where’er  the  meteors  flash  and  fall,  a sun 
With  its  great  course  of  duty! 

So  he  reigned, 

And  died  in  its  observance.  Mightier  he 
Than  any  despot,  in  his  people’s  love, 

He  served  that  law  which  rules  the  Thrones  above, 
That  world-wide  law  which  by  the  raging  sea 
Abased  the  flatterers  of  Canute  and  makes 
The  King  that  abnegates  all  lesser  power 
A rock  in  time  of  trouble,  and  a tower 
Of  strength  where’er  the  tidal  tempest  breaks; 

.That  world-wide  law  whose  name  is  harmony, 
Whose  service  perfect  freedom ! 


And  his  name 

The  Peacemaker , through  all  the  future  years 
Shall  burn,  a glorious  and  prophetic  flame, 

A beaconing  sun  that  never  shall  go  down, 

A sun  to  speed  the  world’s  diviner  morrow, 

A sun  that  shines  the  brighter  for  our  sorrow; 

For,  0,  what  splendour  in  a monarch’s  crown 
Vies  with  the  splendour  of  his  people’s  tears? 

And  now,  0 now,  while  the  sorrowful  trumpet  is  blown, 

From  island  to  continent,  zone  to  imperial  zone, 

And  the  flags  of  the  nations  are  lowered  in  grief  with  our  own ; 
Now,  while  the  roll  of  the  drums  that  for  battle  were  dumb 
When  he  reigned,  salute  his  passing;  and  low  on  the  breeze 
From  the  snow-bound  North  to  the  Australasian  seas 
Surges  the  solemn  lament — O,  shall  it  not  come, 

A glimpse  of  that  mightier  union  of  all  mankind? 

Now,  though  our  eyes,  as  they  gaze  on  the  vision,  grow  blind, 
Now,  while  the  world  is  all  one  funeral  knell, 

And  the  mournful  cannon  thunder  his  great  farewell, 


THE  SAILOR-KING 


117 


Now,  while  the  bells  of  a thousand  cities  toll, 

Remember,  0 England,  remember  the  ageless  gosj, 

Rally  the  slumbering  faith  in  the  depths  of  thy  soul, 

Lift  up  thine  eyes  to  the  Kingdom  for  which  he  fought, 

That  Empire  of  Peace  and  Good-will,  for  which  to  his  death- 
hour  he  wrought. 

Then,  then  while  the  pomp  of  the  world  seems  a little  thing, 
Ay,  though  by  the  world  it  be  said, 

The  King  is  dead ! 

We  shall  lift  up  our  hearts  and  answer — Long  live  the  King! 


THE  SAILOR-KING 

The  fleet,  the  fleet  puts  out  to  sea 

In  a thunder  of  blinding  foam  to-night, 

With  a bursting  wreck-strewn  reef  to  lee, 

But — a seaman  fired  yon  beacon-light! 

Seamen  hailing  a seaman,  know — 

Free-men  crowning  a free-man,  sing— 

The  worth  of  that  light  where  the  great  ships  go, 

The  signal-fire  of  the  king. 

Cloud  and  wind  may  shift  and  veer: 

This  is  steady  and  this  is  sure, 

A signal  over  our  hope  and  fear, 

A pledge  of  the  strength  that  shall  endure — 

Having  no  part  in  our  storm-tossed  strife — 

A sign  of  union,  which  shall' bring 
Knowledge  to  men  of  their  close-knit  life, 

The  signal-fire  of  the  king. 

His  friends  are  the  old  grey  glorious  waves, 

The  wide  world  round,  the  wide  world  round, 

That  have  roared  with  our  guns  and  covered  our  graves 
From  Nombre  Dios  to  Plymouth  Sound; 

And  his  crown  shall  shine,  a central  sun 
Round  which  the  planet-nations  sing, 

Going  their  ways,  but  linked  in  one, 

As  the  ships  of  our  sailor-king. 


118 


THE  FIDDLER’S  FAREWELL 


Many  the  ships,  but  a single  fleet; 

Many  the  roads,  but  a single  goal; 

And  a light,  a light  where  all  roads  meet, 

The  beacon-fire  of  an  Empire's  soul  ; 

The  worth  of  that  light  his  seamen  know, 

Through  all  the  deaths  that  the  storm  can  bring 
The  crown  of  their  comrade-ship  a-glow, 

The  signal-fire  of  the  king. 


THE  FIDDLER’S  FAREWELL 

With  my  fiddle  to  my  shoulder, 

And  my  hair  turning  grey, 

And  my  heart  growing  older 
I must  shuffle  on  my  way! 

Tho'  there's  not  a hearth  to  greet  me 
I must  reap  as  I sowed, 

And — the  sunset  shall  meet  me 
At  the  turn  of  the  road. 


0,  the  whin's  a dusky  yellow 
And  the  road  a rosy  white, 

And  the  blackbird's  call  is  mellow 
At  the  falling  of  night; 

And  there's  honey  in  the  heather 
Where  we'll  make  our  last  abode. 
My  tunes  and  me  together 
At  the  turn  of  the  road. 


I have  fiddled  for  your  city 
Thro'  market-place  and  inn! 

I have  poured  forth  my  pity 
On  your  sorrow  and  your  sin! 
But  your  riches  are  your  burden, 
And  your  pleasure  is  your  goad! 
I've  the  whin-gold  for>  guerdon 
At  the  turn  of  the  road. 


TO  A PESSIMIST 


119 


Your  village-lights  'll  call  me 
As  the  lights  of  home  the  dead; 

But  a black  night  befall  me 
Ere  your  pillows  rest  my  head ! 

God  be  praised,  tho'  like  a jewel 
Every  cottage  casement  showed, 

There's  a star  that's  not  so  cruel 
At  the  turn  of  the  road. 

Nay,  beautiful  and  kindly 
Are  the  faces  drawing  nigh, 

But  I gaze  on  them  blindly 
And  hasten,  hasten  by; 

For  0,  no  face  of  wonder 
On  earth  has  ever  glowed 

Like  the  One  that  waits  me  yonder 
At  the  turn  of  the  road. 

Her  face  is  lit  with  splendour, 

She  dwells  beyond  the  skies; 

But  deep,  deep  and  tender 
Are  the  tears  in  her  eyes: 

The  angels  see  them  glistening 
In  pity  for  my  load, 

And — she's  waiting  there,  she's  listening, 
At  the  turn  of  the  road. 


TO  A PESSIMIST 

Life  like  a cruel  mistress  woos 

The  passionate  heart  of  man,  you  say, 
Only  in  mockery  to  refuse 

His  love,  at  last,  and  turn  away. 

To  me  she  seems  a queen  that  knows 
How  great  is  love — but  ah,  how  rare!— 
And,  pointing  heavenward  ere  she  goes, 
Gives  him  the  rose  from  out  her  hair. 


120 


MOUNT  IDA 


MOUNT  IDA 

[This  poem  commemorates  an  event  of  some  years  ago,  when  a young, 
Englishman — still  remembered  by  many  of  his  contemporaries  at 
Oxford — went  up  into  Mount  Ida  and  was  never  seen  again.] 

I 

Not  cypress,  but  this  warm  pine-plumage  now 
Fragrant  with  sap,  I pluck;  nor  bid  you  weep, 

Ye  Muses  that  still  haunt  the  heavenly  brow 
Of  Ida,  though  the  ascent  is  hard  and  steep: 

Weep  not  for  him  who  left  us  wrapped  in  sleep 
At  dawn  beneath  the  holy  mountain’s  breast 
And  all  alone  from  Ilion’s  gleaming  shore 
Clomb  the  high  sea-ward  glens,  fain  to  drink  deep 
Of  earth’s  old  glory  from  your  silent  crest, 

Take  the  cloud-conquering  throne 
Of  gods,  and  gaze  alone 

Thro’  heaven.  Darkling  we  slept  who  saw  his  face  no  more. 

II 

Ah  yet,  in  him  hath  Lycidas  a brother, 

And  Adonais  will  not  say  him  nay, 

And  Thyrsis  to  the  breast  of  one  sweet  Mother 
Welcomes  him,  climbing  by  the  self-same  way: 

Quietly  as  a cloud  at  break  of  day 

Up  the  long  glens  of  golden  dew  he  stole 
(And  surely  Bion  called  to  him  afar!) 

The  tearful  hyacinths,  and  the  greenwood  spray 
Clinging  to  keep  him  from  the  sapphire  goal, 

Kept  of  his  path  no  trace! 

Upward  the  yearning  face 

Clomb  the  ethereal  height,  calm  as  the  morning  star. 

III 

Ah  yet,  incline,  dear  Sisters,  or  my  song 

That  with  the  light  wings  of  the  skimming  swallow 
Must  range  the  reedy  slopes,  will  work  him  wrong! 

And  with  some  golden  shaft  do  thou,  Apollo, 

Show  the  pine-shadowed  path  that  none  may  follow; 


MOUNT  IDA 


121 


For,  as  the  blue  air  shuts  behind  a bird, 

Round  him  closed  Ida's  cloudy  woods  and  rills! 
Day-long,  night-long,  by  echoing  height  and  hollow, 
We  called  him,  but  our  tumult  died  unheard: 
Down  from  the  scornful  sky 
Our  faint  wing-broken  cry 

Fluttered  and  perished  among  the  many-folded  hills. 


IV 

Ay,  though  we  clomb  each  faint-flushed  peak  of  vision, 
Nought  but  our  own  sad  faces  we  divined: 

Thy  radiant  way  still  laughed  us  to  derision, 

And  still  revengeful  Echo  proved  unkind; 

And  oft  our  faithless  hearts  half  feared  to  find 
Thy  cold  corse  in  some  dark  mist-drenched  ravine 
Where  the  white  foam  flashed  headlong  to  the  sea: 

How  should  we  find  thee,  spirits  deaf  and  blind 
Even  to  the  things  which  we  had  heard  and  seen? 

Eyes  that  could  see  no  more 
The  old  light  on  sea  and  shore, 

What  should  they  hope  or  fear  to  find?  They  found  not  thee; 


V 

For  thou  wast  ever  alien  to  our  skies, 

A wistful  stray  of  radiance  on  this  earth, 

A changeling  with  deep  memories  in  thine  eyes 
Mistily  gazing  thro'  our  loud-voiced  mirth 
To  some  fair  land  beyond  the  gates  of  birth; 

Yet  as  a star  thro'  clouds,  thou  still  didst  shed 
Through  our  dark  world  thy  lovelier,  rarer  glow; 

Time,  like  a picture  of  but  little  worth, 

Before  thy  young  hand  lifelessly  outspread, 

At  one  light  stroke  from  thee 
Gleamed  with  Eternity; 

Thou  gav'st  the  master's  touch,  and  we — we  did  not  know. 


122 


MOUNT  IDA 


VI 

Not  though  we  gazed  from  heaven  o’er  Ilion 
Dreaming  on  earth  below,  mistily  crowned 
With  towering  memories,  and  beyond  her  shone 
The  wine-dark  seas  Achilles  heard  resound! 

Only,  and  after  many  days,  we  found 
Dabbled  with  dew,  at  border  of  a wood 
Bedded  in  hyacinths,  open  and  a-glow 
Thy  Homer’s  Iliad.  . . . Dryad  tears  had  drowned 
The  rough  Greek  type  and,  as  with  honey  or  blood, 
One  crocus  with  crushed  gold 
Stained  the  great  page  that  told 
Of  gods  that  sighed  their  loves  on  Ida,  long  ago. 


VII 

See — for  a couch  to  their  ambrosial  limbs 

Even  as  their  golden  load  of  splendour  presses 
The  fragrant  thyme , a billowing  cloud  up-swims 
Of  springing  flowers  beneath  their  deep  caresses , 

Hyacinth,  lotus,  crocus,  wildernesses 

Of  bloom  . . . but  clouds  of  sunlight  and  of  dew 

Dropping  rich  balm,  round  the  dark  pine- woods  curled 
That  the  warm  wonder  of  their  in-woven  tresses, 

And  all  the  secret  blisses  that  they  knew, 

Where  beauty  kisses  truth 
In  heaven’s  deep  heart  of  youth, 

Might  still  be  hidden,  as  thou  art,  from  the  heartless  world. 


VIII 

Even  as  we  found  thy  book,  below  these  rocks 
Perchance  that  strange  great  eagle’s  feather  lay, 
When  Ganymede,  from  feeding  of  his  flocks 
On  Ida,  vanished  thro’  the  morning  grey: 
Stranger  it  seemed,  if  thou  couldst  cast  away 


MOUNT  IDA 


123 


Those  golden  musics  as  a thing  of  nought, 

A dream  for  which  no  longer  thou  hadst  need! 
Ah,  was  it  here  then  that  the  break  of  day 

Brought  thee  the  substance  for  the  shadow,  taught 
Thy  soul  a swifter  road 
To  ease  it  of  its  load 

And  watch  this  world  of  shadows  as  a dream  recede? 


IX 

We  slept!  Darkling  we  slept!  Our  busy  schemes, 

Our  cold  mechanic  world  awhile  was  still; 

But  O,  their  eyes  are  blinded  even  in  dreams 

Who  from  the  heavenlier  Powers  withdraw  their  will : 

Here  did  the  dawn  with  purer  light  fulfil 

Thy  happier  eyes  than  ours,  here  didst  thou  see 
The  quivering  wonder-light  in  flower  and  dew, 

The  quickening  glory  of  the  haunted  hill, 

The  Hamadryad  beckoning  from  the  tree. 

The  Naiad  from  the  stream; 

While  from  her  long  dark  dream 
Earth  woke,  trembling  with  life,  light,  beauty,  through  and 
through. 


X 

. And  the  everlasting  miracle  of  things 

Flowed  round  thee,  and  this  dark  earth  opposed  no  bar, 
And  radiant  faces  from  the  flowers  and  springs 

Dawned  on  thee,  whispering,  Knowest  thou  whence  we  are? 
Faintly  thou  heardst  us  calling  thee  afar 
As  Hylas  heard,  swooning  beneath  the  wave, 

Girdled  with  glowing  arms,  while  wood  and  glen 
Echoed  his  name  beneath  that  rosy  star; 

And  thy  farewell  came  faint  as  from  the  grave 
For  very  bliss;  but  we 
Could  neither  hear  nor  see; 

And  all  the  hill  with  Hylas!  Hylas ! rang  again. 


124 


MOUNT  IDA 


XI 

But  there  were  deeper  love-tales  for  thine  ears 
Than  mellow-tongued  Theocritus  could  tell: 

Over  him  like  a sea  two  thousand  years 

Had  swept.  They  solemnized  his  music  well! 
Farewell!  What  word  could  answer  but  farewell, 

From  thee,  0 happy  spirit,  that  couldst  steal 
So  quietly  from  this  world  at  break  of  day? 

What  voice  of  ours  could  break  the  silent  spell 
Beauty  had  cast  upon  thee,  or  reveal 
The  gates  of  sun  and  dew 
Which  oped  and  let  thee  through 
And  led  thee  heavenward  by  that  deep  enchanted  way? 


XII 

Yet  here  thou  mad’st  thy  choice:  Love,  Wisdom,  Power, 
As  once  before  young  Paris,  they  stood  here! 

Beneath  them  Ida,  like  one  full-blown  flower, 

Shed  her  bloom  earthward  thro’  the  radiant  air 
Leaving  her  rounded  fruit,  their  beauty,  bare 
To  the  everlasting  dawn;  and,  in  thy  palm 
The  golden  apple  of  the  Hesperian  isle 
Which  thou  must  only  yield  to  the  Most  Fair; 

But  not  to  Juno’s  great  luxurious  calm, 

Nor  Dian’s  curved  white  moon, 

Gav’st  thou  the  sunset’s  boon, 

Nor  to  foajn-bosomed  Aphrodite’s  rose-lipped  smile* 


XIII 

Here  didst  thou  make  the  eternal  choice  aright, 
Here,  in  this  hallowed  haunt  of  nymph  and  faun, 
They  stood  before  thee  in  that  great  new  light, 

The  three  great  splendours  of  the  immortal  dawn, 
With  all  the  cloudy  veils  of  Time  withdrawn 


MOUNT  IDA 


Or  only  glistening  round  the  firm  white  snows 
Of  their  pure  beauty  like  the  golden  dew 
Brushed  from  the  feathery  ferns  below  the  lawn; 

But  not  to  cold  Diana’s  morning  rose, 

Nor  to  great  Juno’s  frown 
Cast  thou  the  apple  down, 

And,  when  the  Paphian  raised  her  lustrous  eyes  anew, 


XIV 

Thou  from  thy  soul  didst  whisper — in  that  heaven 
Which  yearns  beyond  us!  Lead  me  up  the  height! 
How  should  the  golden  fruit  to  one  be  given 
Till  your  three  splendours  in  that  Sun  unite 
Where  each  in  each  ye  move  like  light  in  light ? 

How  should  I judge  the  rapture  till  I know 

The  pain f And  like  three  waves  of  music  there 
They  closed  thee  round,  blinding  thy  blissful  sight 
With  beauty  and,  like  one  roseate  orb  a-glow, 
They  bore  thee  on  their  breasts 
Up  the  sun-smitten  crests 
And  melted  with  thee  smiling  into  the  Most  Fair. 


XV 

Upward  and  onward,  ever  as  ye  went 
The  cities  of  the  world  nestled  beneath 
Closer,  as  if  in  love,  round  Ida,  blent 

With  alien  hills  in  one  great  bridal-wreath 
Of  dawn-flushed  clouds;  while,  breathing  with  your  breath 
New  heavens  mixed  with  your  mounting  bliss.  Deep  e; 
Beautiful  eyes,  imbrued  with  the  world’s  tears 
Dawned  on  you,  beautiful  gleams  of  Love  and  Death 
Flowed  thro’  your  questioning  with  divine  replies 
From  that  ineffable  height 
Dark  with  excess  of  light 

Where  the  Ever-living  dies  and  the  All-loving  hears. 


126 


MOUNT  IDA 


XVI 

For  thou  hadst  seen  what  tears  upon  man's  face 
Bled  from  the  heart  or  burned  from  out  the  brain, 
And  not  denied  or  cursed,  but  couldst  embrace 
Infinite  sweetness  in  the  heart  of  pain, 

And  heardst  those  universal  choirs  again 
Wherein  like  waves  of  one  harmonious  sea 

All  our  slight  dreams  of  heaven  are  singing  still, 
And  still  the  throned  Olympians  swell  the  strain, 
And,  hark,  the  burden  of  all — Come  unto  Me! 

Sky  into  deepening  sky 
Melts  with  that  one  great  cry; 

And  the  lost  doves  of  Ida  moan  on  Siloa's  hill. 


XVII 

I gather  all  the  ages  in  my  song 

And  send  them  singing  up  the  heights  to  thee! 

Chord  by  aeonian  chord  the  stars  prolong 
Their  passionate  echoes  to  Eternity: 

Earth  wakes,  and  one  orchestral  symphony 

Sweeps  o'er  the  quivering  harp-strings  of  mankind; 

Grief  modulates  into  heaven,  hate  drowns  in  love, 

No  strife  now  but  of  love  in  that  great  sea 

Of  song!  I dream!  I dream!  Mine  eyes  grow  blind: 
Chords  that  I not  command 
Escape  the  fainting  hand; 

Tears  fall.  Thou  canst  not  hear.  Thou'rt  still  too  far  above. 


XVIII 

Farewell!  What  word  should  answer  but  farewell 
From  thee,  O happy  spirit,  whose  clear  gaze 
Discerned  the  path — clear,  but  unsearchable — 
Where  Olivet  sweetens,  deepens,  Ida's  praise, 
The  path  that  strikes  as  thro'  a sunlit  haz<* 


THE  ELECTRIC  TRAM 


127 


Through  Time  to  that  clear  reconciling  height 
Where  our  commingling  gleams  of  godhead  dwell; 
Strikes  thro’  the  turmoil  of  our  darkling  days 
To  that  great  harmony  where,  like  light  in  light, 

Wisdom  and  Beauty  still 
Haunt  the  thrice-holy  hill, 

And  Love,  immortal  Love  . . . what  answer  but  farewell? 


THE  ELECTRIC  TRAM 
I 


Bluff  and  burly  and  splendid 

Thro'  roaring  traffic-tides, 

By  secret  lightnings  attended 

The  land-ship  hisses  and  glides. 

And  I sit  on  its  bridge  and  I watch  and  I dream 
While  the  world  goes  gallantly  by, 

With  all  its  crowded  houses  and  its  colored  shops  a-stream 
Under  the  June-blue  sky, 

Heigh,  ho! 

Under  the  June-blue  sky. 


II 

There's  a loafer  at  the  kerb  with  a sulphur-coloured  pile 
Of  “ Lights!  Lights!  Lights!"  to  sell; 

And  a flower-girl  there  with  some  lilies  and  a smile 
By  the  gilt  swing-doors  of  a drinking  hell, 

Where  the  money  is  rattling  loud  and  fast, 

And  I catch  one  glimpse  as  the  ship  swings  past 
Of  a woman  with  a babe  at  her  breast 
Wrapped  in  a ragged  shawl; 

She  is  drinking  away  with  the  rest, 

And  the  sun  shines  over  it  all, 

Heigh,  ho! 

The  sun  shines  over  it  sR! 


1^5 


»i±JbiKWOOU 


III 


And  a barrel-organ  is  playing, 

Somewhere,  far  away, 

Abide  with  me , and  The  world  is  gone  a-mayingf 
And  What  will  the  policeman  say  f 
There’s  a glimpse  of  the  river  down  an  alley  by  a church, 

And  the  barges  with  their  tawny-coloured  sails, 

And  a grim  and  grimy  coal-wharf  where  the  London  pigeons 
perch 

And  flutter  and  spread  their  tails, 

Heigh,  ho! 

Flutter  and  spread  their  tails. 


0,  what  does  it  mean,  all  the  pageant  and  the  pity, 

The  waste  and  the  wonder  and  the  shame? 

I am  riding  tow’rds  the  sunset  thro’  the  vision  of  a City 
Which  we  cloak  with  the  stupor  of  a name! 

I am  riding  thro’  ten  thousand  thousand  tragedies  and  terrors, 
Ten  million  heavens  that  save  and  hells  that  damn; 
And  the  lightning  draws  my  car  towards  the  golden  evening  star; 
And — They  call  i \i  only  “ riding  on  a tram,” 

Heigh,  ho! 

They  call  it  only  “riding  on  a tram.” 


IV 


SHERWOOD 


PERSONS  OF  THE  DRAMA 


Robin 


Earl  of  Huntingdon,  known 
as  “Robin  Hood.” 


Little  John  . 
Friar  Tuck  . 
Will  Scarlet 


Outlaws  and  followers  of 
“Robin  Hood.” 


Reynold  Greenleaf 
Much,  the  Miller’s  Son 
Allan-a-Dale 


SHERWOOD 


129 


Prince  John. 

King  Richard,  Cceur  de 
Lion. 

Blondel  

Oberon  

Titania  

Puck 

The  Sheriff  of  Not- 
tingham. 

Fitzwalter  . 

Shadow-of-a-Leaf  . 
Arthur  Plantagenet  . 


Queen  Elinor  . 

Marian  Fitzwalter 

Jenny  .... 
Widow  Scarlet  . 
Prioress  of  Kirklee. 


King  Richard’s  minstrel. 
King  of  the  Fairies. 
Queen  of  the  Fairies. 

A Fairy. 


Father  of  Marian,  known  as 
“Maid  Marian.” 

A Fool. 

Nephew  to  Prince  John,  a 
boy  of  about  ten  years  of 
age. 

Mother  of  Prince  John  and 
Richard  Lion-Heart. 

Known  as  Maid  Marian,  be- 
trothed to  Robin  Hood. 

Maid  to  Marian. 

Mother  of  Will  Scarlet. 


Fairies,  merry  men,  serfs,  peasants,  mercenaries,  an 
abbot,  a baron,  a novice,  nuns,  courtiers,  sol- 
diers, retainers,  etc. 


ACT  1 

Scene  I.  Night.  The  borders  of  the  forest.  The  smouldering 
embers  of  a Saxon  homestead.  The  Sheriff  and  his 
men  are  struggling  with  a Serf. 


SERF 

No,  no,  not  that!  not  that!  If  you  should  blind  me 
God  will  repay  you.  Kill  me  out  of  hand! 

[Enter  Prince  John  and  several  of  his  retainers.] 


130 


SHERWOOD 


JOHN 

Who  is  this  night-jar? 

[The  retainers  laugh.] 

Surely,  master  Sheriff, 
You  should  have  cut  its  tongue  out,  first.  Its  cries 
Tingle  so  hideously  across  the  wood 
They’ll  wake  the  King  in  Palestine.  Small  wonder 
That  Robin  Hood  evades  you. 

SHERIFF 
[To  the  Serf.] 

Silence,  dog, 

Know  you  not  better  than  to  make  this  clamour 
Before  Prince  John? 


SERF 

Prince  John!  It  is  Prince  John! 
For  God’s  love  save  me,  sir! 

JOHN 

Whose  thrall  is  he? 
SHERIFF 

I know  not,  sir,  but  he  was  caught  red-handed 
Killing  the  king’s  deer.  By  the  forest  law 
He  should  of  rights  be  blinded;  for,  as  you  see, 

[He  indicates  the  Serf’s  right  hand.] 

’Tis  not  his  first  deer  at  King  Richard’s  cost. 

JOHN 

’Twill  save  you  trouble  if  you  say  at  mine. 
SHERIFF 

Ay,  sir,  I pray  your  pardon — at  your  cost! 

His  right  hand  lacks  the  thumb  and  arrow-finger, 

And  though  he  vows  it  was  a falling  tree 

That  crushed  them,  you  may  trust  your  Sheriff,  sir, 

It  was  the  law  that  clipped  them  when  he  last 
Hunted  your  deer. 


SHERWOOD 


131 


SERF 

Prince,  when  the  Conqueror  came, 
They  burned  my  father's  homestead  with  the  rest 
To  make  the  King  a broader  hunting-ground. 

I have  hunted  there  for  food.  How  could  I bear 
To  hear  my  hungry  children  crying?  Prince, 

They'll  make  good  bowmen  for  your  wars,  one  day. 

JOHN 

He  is  much  too  fond  of  1 Prince':  he'll  never  live 
To  see  a king.  Whose  thrall? — his  iron  collar, 

Look,  is  the  name  not  on  it? 

SHERIFF 

Sir,  the  name 

Is  filed  away,  and  in  another  hour 
The  ring  would  have  been  broken.  He  is  one  of  those 
Green  adders  of  the  moon,  night-creeping  thieves 
Whom  Huntingdon  has  tempted  to  the  woods. 

These  desperate  ruffians  flee  their  lawful  masters 

And  flock  around  the  disaffected  Earl 

Like  ragged  rooks  around  an  elm,  by  scores! 

And  now,  i'  faith,  the  sun  of  Huntingdon 
Is  setting  fast.  They've  well  nigh  beggared  him, 

Eaten  him  out  of  house  and  home.  They  say 
That,  when  we  make  him  outlaw,  we  shall  find 
Nought  to  distrain  upon,  but  empty  cupboards. 

JOHN 

Did  you  not  serve  him  once  yourself? 

SHERIFF 

Oh,  ay, 

He  was  more  prosperous  then.  But  now  my  cupboards 

Are  full,  and  his  are  bare.  Well,  I'd  think  scorn 

To  share  a crust  with  outcast  churls  and  thieves, 

Doffing  his  dignity,  letting  them  call  him 

Robin,  or  Robin  Hood,  as  if  an  Earl 

Were  just  a plain  man,  which  he  will  be  soon, 


132 


SHERWOOD 


When  we  have  served  our  writ  of  outlawry! 

,rTis  said  he  hopes  much  from  the  King's  return 
And  swears  by  Lion-Heart;  and  though  King  Richard 
Is  brother  to  yourself,  'tis  all  the  more 
Ungracious,  sir,  to  hope  he  should  return, 

And  overset  your  rule.  But  then — to  keep 
Such  base  communications!  Myself  would  think  it 
Unworthy  of  my  sheriffship,  much  more 
Unworthy  a right  Earl. 

JOHN 

You  talk  too  much! 

This  whippet,  here,  slinks  at  his  heel,  you  say. 

Mercy  may  close  her  eyes,  then.  Take  him  off, 

Blind  him  or  what  you  will;  and  let  him  thank 
His  master  for  it.  But  wait — perhaps  he  knows 
Where  we  may  trap  this  young  patrician  thief. 

Where  is  your  master? 

SERF 

Where  you'll  never  find  him. 
JOHN 

Oh,  ho!  the  dog  is  faithful!  Take  him  away. 

Get  your  red  business  done.  I shall  require 
Your  men  to  ride  with  me. 

SHERIFF 
[To  his  men.] 

Take  him  out  yonder, 

A bow-shot  into  the  wood,  so  that  his  clamour 
Do  not  offend  my  lord.  Delay  no  time, 

The  irons  are  hot  by  this.  They'll  give  you  light 
Enough  to  blind  him  by. 

SERF 

[Crying  out  and  struggling  as  he  is  forced  hack  into  the  forest 

No,  no,  not  that! 

God  will  repay  you!  Kill  me  out  of  hand! 


SHERWOOD 


133 


SHERIFF 
[To  Prince  John.] 

There  is  a kind  of  justice  in  all  this. 

The  irons  being  heated  in  that  fire,  my  lord, 

Which  was  his  hut,  aforetime. 

[Some  of  the  men  take  the  glowing  irons  from  the  fire  and  follow 
into  the  wood.] 

There’s  no  need 

To  parley  with  him,  either.  The  snares  are  laid 
For  Robin  Hood.  He  goes  this  very  night 
To  his  betrothal  feast. 


JOHN 

Betrothal  feast! 

SHERIFF 

At  old  Fitzwalter’s  castle,  sir. 

JOHN 

Ha!  ha! 

There  will  be  one  more  guest  there  than  he  thought! 

Ourselves  are  riding  thither.  We  intended 

My  Lady  Marian  for  a happier  fate 

Than  bride  to  Robin  Hood.  Your  plans  are  laid 

To  capture  him? 


SHERIFF 
[C  onsequentially . ] 

It  was  our  purpose,  sir, 
To  serve  the  writ  of  outlawry  upon  him 
And  capture  him  as  he  came  forth. 

JOHN 

That’s  well. 

Then — let  him  disappear — you  understand? 

SHERIFF 

I have  your  warrant,  sir?  Death?  A great  Earl? 


134 


SHERWOOD 


JOHN 

Why,  first  declare  him  outlawed  at  his  feast! 

’Twill  gladden  the  tremulous  heart  of  old  Fitzwalter 
With  his  prospective  son-in-law;  and  then — 

No  man  will  overmuch  concern  himself 
Whither  an  outlaw  goes.  You  understand? 


SHERIFF 

It  shall  be  done,  sir. 

JOHN 

But  the  Lady  Marian! 

By  heaven,  I’ll  take  her.  I’ll  banish  old  Fitzwalter 
If  he  prevent  my  will  in  this.  You’ll  bring 
How  many  men  to  ring  the  castle  round? 

SHERIFF 

A good  five  score  of  bowmen. 

« 

JOHN 

Then  111  take  her 

This  very  night  as  hostage  for  Fitzwalter, 

Since  he  consorts  with  outlaws.  These  grey  rats 
Will  gnaw  my  kingdom’s  heart  out.  For  ’tis  mine, 

This  England,  now  or  later.  They  that  hold 
By  Richard,  as  their  absent  king,  would  make 
My  rule  a usurpation.  God,  am  I 
My  brother’s  keeper? 

[There  is  a cry  in  the  forest  from  the  Serf,  who  immediately 
afterwards  appears  at  the  edge  of  the  glade , shaking 
himself  free  from  his  guards . He  seizes  a weapon 
and  rushes  at  Prince  John.  One  of  the  retainers  runs 
him  through  and  he  falls  at  the  Prince’s  feet.] 

JOHN 

That’s  a happy  answer! 


SHERWOOD 


135 


He  is  dead. 


SHERIFF 

[Stooping  over  the  body.] 


JOHN 


I am  sorry.  It  were  better  sport 
To  send  him  groping  like  a hoodman  blind 
Through  Sherwood,  whimpering  for  his  Robin.  Come, 

Fll  ride  with  you  to  this  betrothal  feast. 

Now  for  my  Lady  Marian! 

[Exeunt  all.  A pause.  The  scene  darkens.  Shadowy  figures  creep 
out  from  the  thickets , of  old  men , women  and  children .] 


FIRST  OLD  MAN 

[Stretching  his  arms  up  to  Heaven .] 

God,  am  I 

My  brother’s  keeper?  Witness,  God  in  heaven, 

He  said  it  and  not  we — Cain’s  word,  he  said  it! 

FIRST  WOMAN 

[Kneeling  by  the  body.] 

0 Father,  Father,  and  the  blood  of  Abel 
Cries  to  thee! 

A BLIND  MAN 

Is  there  any  light  here  still? 

1 feel  a hot  breath  on  my  face.  The  dark 
Is  better  for  us  all.  I am  sometimes  glad 
They  blinded  me  those  many  years  ago. 

Princes  are  princes;  and  God  made  the  world 
For  one  or  two  if  seems.  Well,  I am  glad 

I cannot  see  His  world. 


FIRST  WOMAN 

[Still  by  the  body  and  whispering  to  the  others.] 

Keep  him  away. 

’Tis  as  we  thought.  The  dead  man  is  his  son. 

Kefep  him  away,  poor  soul.  He  need  not  know. 

[Some  of  the  men  carry  the  body  among  the  thickets.] 


136 


SHERWOOD 


A CHILD 

Mother,  I’m  hungry,  Dm  hungry! 

FIRST  OLD  MAN 

There’s  no  food 

For  any  of  us  to-night.  The  snares  are  empty, 

And  I can  try  no  more. 

THE  BLIND  MAN 

Wait  till  my  son 

Comes  back.  He’s  a rare  hunter  is  my  boy. 

You  need  not  fret,  poor  little  one.  My  son 
Is  much  too  quick  and  clever  for  the  Sheriff. 

He’ll  bring  you  something  good.  Why,  ha!  ha!  ha! 
Friends,  I’ve  a thought — the  Sheriff’s  lit  the  fire 
Ready  for  us  to  roast  our  meat.  Come,  come, 

Let  us  be  merry  while  we  may!  My  boy 
Will  soon  come  back  with  food  for  the  old  folks. 

The  fire  burns  brightly,  eh? 

SECOND  OLD  MAN 

The  fire  that  feeds 

On  hope  and  eats  our  hearts  away.  They’ve  burnt 
Everything,  everything! 

THE  BLIND  MAN 

Ah,  princes  are  princes! 

But  when  the  King  comes  home  from  the  Crusade, 

We  shall  have  better  times. 

FIRST  OLD  MAN 

Ay,  when  the  King 

Comes  home  from  the  Crusade. 


CHILD 


Mother,  I’m  hungry. 


SHERWOOD 


137 


SECOND  WOMAN 

Oh,  but  if  1 could  only  find  a crust 

Left  by  the  dogs.  Masters,  the  child  will  starve. 

We  must  have  food. 

THE  BLIND  MAN 

I tell  you  when  my  boy 
Comes  back,  we  shall  have  plenty! 


FIRST  WOMAN 

God  pity  thee! 

THE  BLIND  MAN 
What  dost  thou  mean? 

SECOND  WOMAN 

Masters,  the  child  will  starve. 

FIRST  OLD  MAN 
Hist,  who  comes  here — a forester? 


THE  BLIND  MAN 
Slip  back  into  the  dark. 


We'd  best 


FIRST  WOMAN 
[ Excitedly .] 

No,  stay!  All's  well 

There's  Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  good  Lady  Marian's  fool 
Beside  him! 

THE  BLIND  MAN 

Ah,  they  say  there's  fairy  blood 
In  Shadow-of-a-Leaf.  But  I've  no  hopes  of  more 
From  him,  than  wild  bees'  honey-bags. 

[Enter  Little  John,  a giant  figure , leading  a donkey , laden 
with  a sack . On  the  other  sidef  Shadow-of-a-Leaf 
trips , a slender  figure  in  green  trunk-hose  and  doublet . 
He  is  tickling  the  donkey’s  ears  with  a long  fern,] 


138 


SHERWOOD 


SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Gee!  Whoa? 

Neddy,  my  boy,  have  you  forgot  the  Weaver. 

And  how  Titania  tickled  your  long  ears? 

Ha!  ha!  Don’t  ferns  remind  you? 

LITTLE  JOHN 

Friends,  my  master 

Hath  sent  me  to  you,  fearing  ye  might  hunger. 

FIRST  OLD  MAN 

Thy  master? 

LITTLE  JOHN 
Robin  Hood. 

SECOND  WOMAN 
[Falling  on  her  knees.] 

God  bless  his  name. 

God  bless  the  kindly  name  of  Robin  Hood. 

LITTLE  JOHN 
[Giving  them  food.] 

’Tis  well  nigh  all  that’s  left  him;  and  to-night 
He  goes  to  his  betrothal  feast. 

[All  the  outcasts  except  the  first  old  man  exeunt.] 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
[Pointing  to  the  donkey .] 

Now  look, 

There’s  nothing  but  that  shadow  of  a cross 

On  his  grey  back  to  tell  you  of  the  palms 

That  once  were  strewn  before  my  Lord,  the  King. 

Won’t  ferns,  won’t  branching  ferns,  do  just  as  well? 
There’s  only  a dream  to  ride  my  donkey  now! 

But,  Neddy,  I’ll  lead  you  home  and  cry — Hosanna! 

We’ll  thread  the  glad  Gate  Beautiful  again, 

Though  now  there’s  only  a Fool  to  hold  your  bridle 
And  only  moonlit  ferns  to  strew  your  path, 

And  the  great  King  is  fighting  for  a grave 
In  lands  beyond  the  sea.  Come,  Neddy,  come, 

Hosanna! 

[Exit  Shadow-of-a-Leaf  with  the  donkey . He  strews  ferns 
before  it  as  he  goes.] 


SHERWOOD 


139 


FIRST  OLD  MAN 

’Tis  a strange  creature,  master!  Thinkest 
There’s  fairy  blood  in  him? 

LITTLE  JOHN 

’Twas  he  that  brought 

Word  of  your  plight  to  Robin  Hood.  He  flits 
Like  Moonshine  thro’  the  forest.  Hell  be  home 
Before  I know  it.  I must  be  hastening  back. 

This  makes  a sad  betrothal  night. 

FIRST  OLD  MAN 

That  minds  me, 

Couched  in  the  thicket  yonder,  we  overheard 
The  Sheriff  tell  Prince  John  . 

LITTLE  JOHN 

Prince  John! 

FIRST  OLD  MAN 

You’d  best 

Warn  Robin  Hood.  They’re  laying  a trap  for  him. 

Ay!  Now  I mind  me  of  it!  I heard  ’em  say 
They’d  take  him  at  the  castle. 

LITTLE  JOHN 
To-night? 

FIRST  OLD  MAN 

To-night! 

Fly,  lad,  for  God’s  dear  love.  Warn  Robin  Hood! 

Fly  like  the  wind,  or  you’ll  be  there  too  late. 

And  yet  you’d  best  be  careful.  There’s  five  score 
In  ambush  round  the  castle. 

LITTLE  JOHN 

111  be  there 

An  if  I have  to  break  five  hundred  heads! 

[He  rushes  off  thro ’ the  forest.  The  old  man  goes  into  the  thicket 
after  the  others.  The  scene  darkens.  A soft  light , as 


140 


SHERWOOD 


of  the  moon,  appears  between  the  ferns  to  the  right  of  the 
glade,  showing  Oberon  and  Titania.] 

TITANIA 

Yet  one  night  more  the  gates  of  fairyland 
Are  opened  by  a mortal's  kindly  deed. 

OBERON 

Last  night  the  gates  were  shut,  and  I heard  weeping! 
Men,  women,  children,  beat  upon  the  gates 
That  guard  our  happy  world.  They  could  not  sleep. 
Titania,  must  not  that  be  terrible, 

When  mortals  cannot  sleep? 

TITANIA 

Yet  one  night  more 

Dear  Robin  Hood  has  opened  the  gates  wide 
And  their  poor  weary  souls  can  enter  in. 

OBERON 

Yet  one  night  more  we  woodland  elves  may  steal 
Out  thro'  the  gates.  I fear  the  time  will  come 
When  they  must  close  for  ever;  and  we  no  more 
Shall  hold  our  Sherwood  revels. 

TITANIA 

Only  love 

And  love's  kind  sacrifice  can  open  them. 

For  when  a mortal  hurts  himself  to  help 
Another,  then  he  thrusts  the  gates  wide  open 
Between  his  world  and  ours. 

OBERON 

Ay,  but  that's  rare, 

That  kind  of  love,  Titania,  for  the  gates 
Are  almost  always  closed. 


SHERWOOD 


141 


TITANIA 

Yet  one  night  more! 

Hark,  how  the  fairy  host  begins  to  sing 

Within  the  gates.  Wait  here  and  we  shall  see 

What  weary  souls  by  grace  of  Robin  Hood 

This  night  shall  enter  Dreamland.  See,  they  come! 

[The  soft  light  deepens  in  the  hollow  among  the  ferns  and  the  ivory 
gates  of  Dreamland  are  seen  swinging  open.  The  fairy 
host  is  heard , singing  to  invite  the  mortals  to  enter \ 

[Song  of  the  fairies.] 

The  Forest  shall  conquer!  The  Forest  shall  conquer!  The 
Forest  shall  conquer! 

Your  world  is  growing  old; 

But  a Princess  sleeps  in  the  green wrood, 

Whose  hair  is  brighter  than  gold. 

The  Forest  shall  conquer!  The  Forest  shall  conquer!  The 
Forest  shall  conquer! 

O hearts  that  bleed  and  burn, 

Her  lips  are  redder  than  roses, 

Who  sleeps  in  the  faery  fern. 

The  Forest  shall  conquer!  The  Forest  shall  conquer!  The 
Forest  shall  conquer! 

By  the  Beauty  that  wakes  anew 
Milk-white  with  the  fragrant  hawthorn 
In  the  drip  of  the  dawn-red  dew. 

The  Forest  shall  conquer!  The  Forest  shall  conquer!  The 
Forest  shall  conquer! 

O hearts  that  are  weary  of  pain, 

Come  back  to  your  home  in  Faerie 
And  wait  till  she  wakes  again. 

I The  victims  of  the  forest-laws  steal  out  of  the  thicket  once  more — 
% dark,  distorted , lame,  blind , serfs  with  iron  collars  round 

their  necks , old  men , women  and  children;  and  as  the 
fairy  song  breaks  into  chorus  they  pass  in  procession 
thro 1 the  beautiful  gates.  The  gates  slowly  close.  The 
fairy  song  is  heard  as  dying  away  in  the  distance.] 


142 


SHERWOOD 


TITANIA 

[Coming  aut  into  the  glade  and  holding  up  her  hands  to  the  eve*- 
ning  star  beyond  the  tree-tops .] 

Shine,  shine,  dear  star  of  Love,  yet  one  night  more. 


Scene  II.  A banqueting  hall  in  Fitzwalter’s  castle . The 
guests  are  assembling  for  the  betrothal  feast  of  Robin  and 
Marian.  Some  of  Robin  Hood’s  men,  clad  in  Lincoln 
green , are  just  arriving  at  the  doors . Shadow-of-a- 
Leaf  runs  forward  to  greet  them . 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Come  in,  my  scraps  of  Lincoln  green;  come  in, 

My  slips  of  greenwood.  You’re  much  wanted  here! 

Head,  heart  and  eyes,  we  are  all  pent  up  in  walls 
Of  stone — nothing  but  walls  on  every  side — 

And  not  a rose  to  break  them — big  blind  walls, 

Neat  smooth  stone  walls!  Come  in,  my  ragged  robins; 

Come  in,  my  jolly  minions  of  the  moon, 

My  straggling  hazel-boughs!  Hey,  bully  Mar, 

Come  in,  my  knotted  oak!  Ho,  little  Much, 

Come  in,  my  sweet  green  linnet.  Come,  my  cushats, 

Larks,  yellow-hammers,  fern-owls,  Oh,  come  in, 

Come  in,  my  Bian’s  foresters,  and  drown  us 
With  may,  with  blossoming  may! 

FIT  Z WALTER 

Out,  Shadow-of-a-Leaf! 

Welcome,  welcome,  good  friends  of  Huntingdon, 

Or  Robin  Hood,  by  whatsoever  name 
You  best  may  love  him. 


CRIES 

Robin ! Robin ! Robin ! 
[Enter  Robin  Hood.1 


SHERWOOD 


143 


FITZW  ALTER 

Robin,  so  be  it!  Myself  I am  right  glad 
To  call  him  at  this  bright  betrothal  feast 
My  son. 

[Lays  a hand  on  Robin’s  shoulder .] 

Yet,  though  I would  not  cast  a cloud 
Across  our  happy  gathering,  you’ll  forgive 
An  old  man  and  a father  if  he  sees 
All  your  glad  faces  thro’  a summer  mist 
Of  sadness. 


ROBIN 

Sadness?  Yes,  I understand. 

FITZW  ALTER 

No,  Robin,  no,  you  cannot  understand. 

ROBIN 

Where’s  Marian? 

FITZW  ALTER 

Ay,  that’s  all  you  think  of,  boy. 

But  I must  say  a word  to  all  of  you 
Before  she  comes. 


ROBIN 

Why — what?  . 

FITZW  ALTER 

No  need  to  look 

So  startled;  but  it  is  no  secret  here; 

For  many  of  you  are  sharers  of  his  wild 
Adventures.  Now  I hoped  an  end  had  come 
To  these,  until  another  rumour  reached  me, 

This  very  day,  of  yet  another  prank. 

You  know,  you  know,  how  perilous  a road 
My  Marian  must  ride  if  Huntingdon 
Tramples  the  forest-laws  beneath  his  heel 
And,  in  the  thin  disguise  of  Robin  Hood, 


144 


SHERWOOD 


Succours  the  Saxon  outlaws,  makes  his  house 
A refuge  for  them,  lavishes  his  wealth 
To  feed  their  sick  and  needy. 

[The  Sheriff  and  two  of  his  men  appear  in  the  great  doorway 
out  of  sight  of  the  guests.] 

SHERIFF 
[Whispering,  j 

Not  yet!  keep  back! 

One  of  you  go — see  that  the  guards  are  set! 

He  must  not  slip  us. 


FITZWALTER 

Oh,  I know  his  heart 
Is  gold,  but  this  is  not  an  age  of  gold; 

And  those  who  have  must  keep,  or  lose  the  power 
Even  to  help  themselves.  No — he  must  doff 
His  green  disguise  of  Robin  Hood  for  ever, 

And  wear  his  natural  coat  of  Huntingdon. 

ROBIN 

Ah,  which  is  the  disguise?  Day  after  day 
We  rise  and  put  our  social  armour  on, 

A different  mask  for  every  friend;  but  steel 
Always  to  case  our  hearts.  We  are  all  so  wrapped, 

So  swathed,  so  muffled  in  habitual  thought 
That  now  I swear  we  do  not  know  our  souls 
Or  bodies  from  their  winding-sheets;  but  Custom, 
Custom,  the  great  god  Custom,  all  day  long 
Shovels  the  dirt  upon  us  where  we  lie 
Buried  alive  and  dreaming  that  we  stand 
Upright  and  royal.  Sir,  I have  great  doubts 
About  this  world,  doubts  if  we  have  the  right 
To  sit  down  here  for  this  betrothal  feast 
And  gorge  ourselves  with  plenty,  when  we  know 
That  for  the  scraps  and  crumbs  which  we  let  faff 
And  never  miss,  children  would  kiss  our  hands 
And  women  weep  in  gratitude.  Suppose 
A man  fell  wounded  at  your  gates,  you’d  not 


SHERWOOD 


145 


Pass  on  and  smile  and  leave  him  there  to  die. 

And  can  a few  short  miles  of  distance  blind  you? 

Miles,  nay,  a furlong  is  enough  to  close 

The  gates  of  mercy.  Must  we  thrust  our  hands 

Into  the  wounds  before  we  can  believe? 

Oh,  is  our  sight  so  thick  and  gross?  We  came, 

We  saw,  we  conquered  with  the  Conqueror. 

We  gave  ourselves  broad  lands;  and  when  our  king 
Desired  a wider  hunting  ground  we  set 
Hundreds  of  Saxon  homes  a-blaze  and  tossed 
Women  and  children  back  into  the  fire 
If  they  but  wrung  their  hands  against  our  will. 

And  so  we  made  our  forest,  and  its  leaves 
Were  pitiful,  more  pitiful  than  man. 

They  gave  our  homeless  victims  the  same  refuge 
And  happy  hiding  place  they  give  the  birds 
And  foxes.  Then  we  made  our  forest-laws, 

And  he  that  dared  to  hunt,  even  for  food, 

Even  on  the  ground  where  we  had  burned  his  hut, 

The  ground  we  had  drenched  with  his  own  kindred’s  blood, 
Poor  foolish  churl,  why,  we  put  out  his  eyes 
With  red-hot  irons,  cut  off  both  his  hands, 

Torture  him  with  such  horrors  that  . . . Christ  God, 

How  can  I help  but  fight  against  it  all? 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
Ah,  gossips,  if  the  Conqueror  had  but  burned 
Everything  with  four  walls,  hut,  castle,  palace, 

And  turned  the  whole  wide  world  into  a forest, 

Drenched  us  with  may,  we  might  be  happy  then! 

With  sweet  blue  wood-smoke  curling  thro’  the  boughs, 

And  just  a pigeon’s  flap  to  break  the  silence, 

And  ferns,  of  course,  there’s  much  to  make  men  happy. 
Well,  well,  the  forest  conquers  at  the  last! 

I saw  a thistle  in  the  castle  courtyard, 

A purple  thistle  breaking  thro’  the  pavement, 

Yesterday;  and  it’s  wonderful  how  soon 
Some  creepers  pick  these  old  grey  walls  to  pieces. 

These  nunneries  and  these  monasteries  now, 

They  don’t  spring  up  like  flowers,  so  I suppose 
Old  mother  Nature  wins  the  race  at  last. 

10 


146 


SHERWOOD 


FITZWALTER 

Robin,  my  heart  is  with  you,  but  I know 
A hundred  ages  will  not  change  this  earth. 


SHADOW-QF-A-LEAF 
[With  a candle  in  his  hand.] 
Gossip,  suppose  the  sun  goes  out  like  this. 
Pouf! 

[Blows  it  out.] 

Stranger  things  have  happened. 


FITZWALTER 

Silence,  fool! 

So,  if  you  share  your  wealth  with  all  the  world 
Earth  will  be  none  the  better,  and  my  poor  girl 
Will  suffer  for  it.  Where  you  got  the  gold 
You  have  already  lavished  on  the  poor 
Heaven  knows. 

FRIAR  TUCK 

Oh,  by  the  mass  and  the  sweet  moon 
Of  Sherwood,  so  do  I?  That's  none  so  hard 
A riddle! 


SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Ah,  Friar  Tuck,  we  know,  we  know! 
Under  the  hawthorn  bough,  and  at  the  foot 
Of  rainbows,  that's  where  fairies  hide  their  gold. 

Cut  me  a silver  penny  out  of  the  moon 
Next  time  you're  there. 

[Whispers.] 

Now  tell  me,  have  you  brought 

Your  quarter-staff? 

FRIAR  TUCK 
[Whispering.] 

Hush!  hush. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Oh,  mum's  the  word! 


I see  it! 


SHERWOOD 


147 


FITZW  ALTER 

Believe  me,  Robin,  there’s  one  way 
And  only  one — patience!  When  Lion-Heart 
Comes  home  from  the  Crusade,  he  will  not  brook 
This  blot  upon  our  chivalry.  Prince  John 
Is  dangerous  to  a heart  like  yours.  Beware 
Of  rousing  him.  Meanwhile,  your  troth  holds  good; 

But,  till  the  King  comes  home  from  the  Crusade 
You  must  not  claim  your  bride. 

ROBIN 

So  be  it,  then.  . . . 

When  the  great  King  comes  home  from  the  Crusade!  . . . 
FITZWALTER 

Meanwhile  for  Marian’s  sake  and  mine,  I pray 
Do  nothing  rash. 

[Enter  Widow  Scarlet.  She  goes  up  to  Robin  Hood.] 

WIDOW  SCARLET 

Are  you  that  Robin  Hood 
They  call  the  poor  man’s  friend? 

ROBIN 

I am. 

WIDOW  SCARLET 

They  told  me, 

They  told  me  I should  find  you  here.  They  told  me! 
ROBIN 

Come,  mother,  what’s  the  trouble? 

WIDOW  SCARLET 

Sir,  my  son 

Will  Scarlet  lies  in  gaol  at  Nottingham 

For  killing  deer  in  Sherwood!  Sir,  they’ll  hang  him. 

He  only  wanted  food  for  him  and  me! 

They’ll  kill  him,  I tell  you,  they’ll  kill  him.  I can’t  help 
Crying  it  out.  He’s  all  I have,  all!  Save  hind 
I’ll  pray  for  you,  I’ll  . . . 


148 


SHERWOOD 


ROBIN 

[To  Fitzwalter,  as  he  raises  Widow  Scarlet  gently  to  her  feet.} 

Sir,  has  not  the  King 

Come  home  from  the  Crusade?  Does  not  your  heart 
Fling  open  wide  its  gates  to  welcome  him? 

FITZWALTER 

Robin,  you  set  me  riddles.  Follow  your  conscience. 

Do  what  seems  best. 


ROBIN 


I hope  there  is  a way, 

Mother.  I knew  Will  Scarlet.  Better  heart 
There  never  beat  beneath  a leather  jerkin. 

He  loved  the  forest  and  the  forest  loves  him; 

And  if  the  lads  that  wear  the  forests  livery 
Of  living  green  should  happen  to  break  out 
And  save  Will  Scarlet  (as  on  my  soul  I swear, 

Mother,  they  shall!)  why,  that's  a matter  none 
Shall  answer  for  to  prince,  or  king,  or  God, 

But  you  and  Robin  Hood;  and  if  the  judgment 
Strike  harder  upon  us  than  the  heavenly  smile 
Of  sunshine  thro'  the  greenwood,  may  it  fall 
Upon  my  head  alone. 

| Enter  the  Sheriff,  with  two  of  his  men.  1 


SHERIFF 

[Reads.] 

In  the  King's  name! 

Thou,  Earl  of  Huntingdon,  by  virtue  of  this  writ  art  hereby 
attainted  and  deprived  of  thine  earldom,  thy  lands  and  all  thy 
goods  and  chattels  whatsoever  and  whereas  thou  hast  at  divers 
times  trespassed  against  the  officers  of  the  king  by  force  of 
arms,  thou  art  hereby  outlawed  and  banished  the  realm. 


SHERWOOD 


149 


ROBIN 


That’s  well. 


[He  laughs.] 

It  puts  an  end  to  the  great  question 
Of  how  I shall  dispose  my  wealth,  Fitzwalter. 

But  “ banished”? — No!  that  is  beyond  their  power 
While  I have  power  to  breathe,  unless  they  banish 
The  kind  old  oaks  of  Sherwood.  They  may  call  it 
“Outlawed,”  perhaps. 


FITZWALTER 


Thro’  doors  of  mine? 


Who  let  the  villain  in 


CRIES 

Out  with  him!  Out  with  him! 

[The  guests  draw  swords  and  the  Sheriff  retreats  thro1  the  door ~ 
way  with  his  men.] 


ROBIN 

Put  up  your  swords!  He  had  his  work  to  do. 

[Widow  Scarlet  falls  sobbing  at  his  feet.] 


Stop! 


WIDOW  SCARLET 

O master,  master,  who  will  save  my  son, 
My  son? 


ROBIN 
[Raising  her.] 

Why,  mother,  this  is  but  a dream, 

This  poor  fantastic  strutting  show  of  law! 

And  you  shall  wake  with  us  in  Sherwood  Forest 
And  find  Will  Scarlet  in  your  arms  again. 

Come,  cheerly,  cheerly,  we  shall  overcome 
All  this.  Hark! 

[A  bugle  sounds  in  the  distance.  There  is  a scuffle  in  the  doorway 
and  Little  John  bursts  in  with  his  head  bleeding .] 


150 


SHERWOOD 


LITTLE  JOHN 

Master,  master,  come  away! 
They  are  setting  a trap  for  thee,  drawing  their  tines 
All  round  the  castle. 


ROBIN 

How  now,  little  John, 
They  have  wounded  thee!  Art  hurt? 

LITTLE  JOHN 

No,  no,  that's  nothing. 
Only  a bloody  cockscomb.  Come,  be  swift, 

Or,  if  thou  wert  a fox,  thou'dst  never  slip 
Between  'em.  Ah,  hear  that? 

[Another  bugle  sounds  from  another  direction .] 

That's  number  two. 

Two  sides  cut  off  already.  When  the  third 
Sounds — they  will  have  thee,  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs. 

Prince  John  is  there,  Fitzwalter  cannot  save  *ee. 

They'll  bum  the  castle  down. 

ROBIN 

Prince  John  is  there? 

LITTLE  JOHN 

Ay,  and  my  lord  Fitzwalter  had  best  look 
Well  to  my  mistress  Marian,  if  these  ears 
Heard  right  as  I came  creeping  thro'  their  lines. 

Look  well  to  her,  my  lord,  look  well  to  her. 

Come,  master,  come,  for  God's  sake,  come  away. 

FITZWALTER 

Robin,  this  is  thy  rashness.  I warned  thee,  boy? 

Prince  John!  Nay,  that's  too  perilous  a jest 
For  even  a prince  to  play  with  me.  Come,  Robin, 

You  must  away  and  quickly. 


SHERWOOD 


151 


One  word  with  Marian. 


ROBIN 

Let  me  have 


LITTLE  JOHN 

It  would  be  the  last 

On  earth.  Come,  if  you  ever  wish  to  see 
Her  face  again. 


FITZWALTER 
Come,  Robin,  are  you  mad? 

You’ll  bring  us  ah  to  ruin! 

[He  opens  a little  door  in  the  wall,] 

The  secret  passage, 

This  brings  you  out  by  Much  the  Miller’s  wheel, 

Thro’  an  otter’s  burrow  in  the  river  bank. 

Come,  quick,  or  you’ll  destroy  us!  Take  this  lanthorn. 

If  you’re  in  danger,  slip  into  the  stream 

And  let  it  carry  you  down  into  the  heart 

Of  Sherwood.  'Come  now,  quickly,  you  must  go! 

ROBIN 

The  old  cave,  lads,  in  Sherwood,  you  know  where 
To  find  me.  Friar  Tuck,  bring  Widow  Scarlet 
Thither  to-morrow,  with  a word  or  two 
From  Lady  Marian! 

FITZWALTER 

Quickly,  quickly,  go. 

[He  pushes  Robin  and  Little  John  into  the  opening  and  shruts 
the  dooi\  A pause.] 

Oh,  I shall  pay  for  this,  this  cursed  folly! 

Henceforth  I swear  I wash  my  hands  of  him! 

[Enter  Marian,  from  a door  on  the  right  above  the  banqueting 
hall . She  pauses , pale  and  frightened , on  the  broad, 
steps  leading  down.] 

MARIAN  . 


Father,  where’s  Robin? 


152 


SHERWOOD 


Until  I called  you. 


FITZWALTER 

Child,  I bade  you  stay 


MARIAN 

Something  frightened  me! 
Father,  where’s  Robin?  Where’s  Robin? 

FITZWALTER 

Hush,  Marian,  hark! 

[All  stand  listening.] 
SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

[Stealing  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  whispering  to  Lady  Marian.] 
Lady,  they’re  all  so  silent  now.  I’ll  tell  you 
I had  a dream  last  night — there  was  a man 
That  bled  to  death,  because  of  four  grey  walls 
And  a black-hooded  nun. 

FITZWALTER 

[Angrily.] 

Hist,  Shadow-of-a-Leaf! 

[The  third  bugle  sounds . There  is  a clamour  at  the  doors. 
Enter  Prince  John  and  his  retainers .] 

JOHN 

[Mockingly.] 

Now  this  is  fortunate!  I come  in  time 
To  see — Oh,  what  a picture!  Lady  Marian,, 

Forgive  me — coming  suddenly  out  of  the  dark 
And  seeing  you  there,  robed  in  that  dazzling  white 
Above  these  verdant  gentlemen,  I feel 
Like  one  that  greets  the  gracious  evening  star 
Thro’  a gap  in  a great  wood. 

Is  aught  amiss? 

Why  are  you  all  so  silent?  Ah,  my  good, 

My  brave  Fitz waiter,  I most  fervently 
Trust  I am  not  inopportune. 


SHERWOOD 


153 


FITZWALTER 

My  lord, 

I am  glad  that  you  can  jest.  I am  sadly  grieved 
And  sorely  disappointed  in  that  youth 
Who  has  incurred  your  own  displeasure. 


JOHN 


Your  future  son-in-law? 


Ah? 


FITZWALTER 


He  is  outlawed — 


Never  on  earth! 


MARIAN 

Outlawed! 

FITZWALTER 

And  I wash  my  hands 

Of  Huntingdon.  His  shadow  shall  not  darken 
My  doors  again! 


JOHN 

That's  vehement!  Ha!  ha! 
And  what  does  Lady  Marian  say? 


MARIAN 

Speaks  hastily.  I am  not  so  unworthy. 

FITZWALTER 

Unworthy? 


My  father 


MARIAN 

Yes,  unworthy  as  to  desert  him 
Because  he  is  in  trouble — the  bravest  man 
In  England  since  the  days  of  Here  ward. 

You  know  why  he  is  outlawed! 


154 


SHERWOOD 


FITZW  ALTER 
[To  Prince  John.] 

Si r,  she  speaks 

As  the  spoilt  child  of  her  old  father’s  dotage. 

Give  her  no  heed.  She  shall  not  meet  with  him 
On  earth  again,  and  till  she  promise  this, 

She’ll  sun  herself  within  the  castle  garden 
And  never  cross  the  draw-bridge. 


The  moat! 


MARIAN 


Then  I’ll  swim 


FRIAR  TUCK 
Ha!  ha!  well  spoken. 

MARIAN 

Oh,  you  forget, 

Father,  you  quite  forget  there  is  a King; 

And,  when  the  King  comes  home  from  the  Crusade, 
Will  you  forget  Prince  John  and  change  once  more? 
[Murmurs  of  assent  from  the  Foresters.] 


JOHN 

Enough  of  this. 

Though  I be  prince,  I am  vice-gerent  too! 
Fitzwalter,  I would  have  some  private  talk 
With  you  and  Lady  Marian.  Bid  your  guests 
Remove  a little — 


FITZWALTER 

I’ll  lead  them  ail  within! 
And  let  them  make  what  che'er  they  may.  Come,  friends. 

[He  leads  them  up  the  stairs  to  the  inner  room.] 

My  lord,  I shall  return  immediately! 

[Exeunt  Fitzwalter  and  the  guests .} 


Marian! 


JOHN 


SHERWOOD 


155 


MARIAN 

My  lord! 

JOHN 

[Drawng  close  to  her.] 

I have  come  to  urge  a plea 
On  your  behalf  as  well  as  on  my  own! 

Listen,  you  may  not  know  it — I must  tell  you. 

I have  watched  your  beauty  growing  like  a flower, 

With — why  should  I not  say  it — worship;  yes, 

Marian,  I will  not  hide  it. 

MARIAN 

Sir,  you  are  mad! 

Sir,  and  your  bride,  your  bride,  not  three  months  wedded! 
You  cannot  mean  . . . 


JOHN 

Listen  to  me!  Ah,  Marian, 
You'd  be  more  merciful  if  you  knew  all! 

D'you  think  that  princes  wed  to  please  themselves? 

MARIAN 

Sir,  English  maidens  do;  and  I am  plighted 
Not  to  a prince,  but  to  an  outlawed  man. 

JOHN 

Listen  to  me!  One  word!  Marian,  one  word! 
I never  meant  you  harm!  Indeed,  what  harm 
Could  come  of  this?  Is  not  your  father  poor? 

Fd  make  him  rich!  Is  not  your  lover  outlawed? 

Fd  save  him  from  the  certain  death  that  waits  him. 

You  say  the  forest-laws  afflict  your  soul 
And  his — you  say  you'd  die  for  their  repeal! 

Well — I'll  repeal  them.  All  the  churls  in  England 
Shall  bless  your  name  and  mix  it  in  their  prayers 
With  heaven  itself. 


156 


SHERWOOD 


MARIAN 
The  price? 

JOHN 

You  call  it  that! 

To  let  me  lay  the  world  before  your  feet, 

To  let  me  take  this  little  hand  in  mine. 

Why  should  I hide  my  love  from  you? 

MARIAN 

No  more, 

Fll  hear  no  more!  You  are  a prince,  you  say? 

JOHN 

One  word — suppose  it  some  small  sacrifice, 

To  save  those  churls  for  whom  you  say  your  heart 
Bleeds;  yet  you  will  not  lift  your  little  finger 
To  save  them!  And  what  hinders  you? — A breath, 

A dream,  a golden  rule!  Can  you  not  break  it 
For  a much  greater  end? 

MARIAN 

Fd  dii  to  save  them. 

JOHN 

Then  live  to  save  them. 

MARIAN 

No,  you  will  not  let  me; 
D’you  think  that  bartering  my  soul  will  help 
To  save  another?  If  there’s  no  way  but  this, 

Then  through  my  lips  those  suffering  hundreds  cry, 

We  choose  the  suffering.  All  that  is  good  in  them, 

All  you  have  left,  all  you  have  not  destroyed, 

Cries  out  against  you : and  I’ll  go  to  them, 

Suffer  and  toil  and  love  and  die  with  them 
Rather  than  touch  your  hand.  You  over-rate 
Your  powder  to  hurt  our  souls.  You  are  mistaken! 

There  is  a golden  rule! 


SHERWOOD 


157 


JOHN 


And  with  such  lips 

You  take  to  preaching!  I was  a fool  to  worry 

Your  sold  with  reason.  With  hair  like  yours — it's  hopeless! 

But  Marian — you  shall  hear  me. 

[He  catches  her  in  his  arms.] 

Yes,  by  God, 


Marian,  you  shall!  I love  you. 


MARIAN 

[Struggling.] 

You  should  not  live! 


JOHN 

One  kiss,  then!  Devil  take  it. 

[Enter  Fitzwalter  above] 

MARIAN 

[Wresting  herself  free] 

You  should  not  live! 
Were  I a man  and  not  a helpless  girl 
You  should  not  live! 


JOHN 

Come,  now,  that’s  very  wicked. 
See  how  these  murderous  words  affright  your  father. 

My  good  Fitzwalter,  there’s  no  need  to  look 
So  ghastly.  For  your  sake  and  hers  and  mine 
I have  been  trying  to  make  your  girl  forget 
The  name  of  Huntingdon.  A few  short  months 
At  our  gay  court  would  blot  his  memory  out! 

I promise  her  a life  of  dazzling  pleasures, 

And,  in  return  she  flies  at  me — a tigress — 

Clamouring  for  my  blood!  Try  to  persuade  her ! 

FITZWALTER 

My  lord,  you  are  very  good.  She  must  decide 
Herself. 


158 


SHERWOOD 


JOHN 

[Angrily.] 

Ill  not  be  trifled  with!  I hold 
The  hand  of  friendship  out  and  you  evade  it. 

The  moment  I am  gone,  back  comes  your  outlaw. 

You  say  you  have  no  power  with  your  own  child! 

Well,  then  I’ll  take  her  back  this  very  night; 

Back  to  the  court  with  me.  How  do  I know 
What  treasons  you  are  hatching  here?  Ill  take  her 
As  hostage  for  yourself. 


FITZWALTER 


I have  sworn  to  you. 


My  lord,  you  jest! 


JOHN 

No  more!  If  you  be  loyal, 

What  cause  have  you  to  fear? 

FITZWALTER 

My  lord,  111  give 

A hundred  other  pledges ; but  not  this. 


JOHN 


By  heaven,  will  you  dictate  your  terms  to  me? 
I say  that  she  shall  come  back  to  the  court 
This  very  night!  Ho,  there,  my  men. 

[Enter  John’s  retainers.] 


This  lady  back  with  us. 


Escort 


FITZWALTER 

Back  there,  keep  back.  Prince  or  no  prince, 

I say  she  shall  not  go! 

[He  draws  his  sword.] 

I’d  rather  see  her 

Begging  in  rags  with  outlawed  Huntingdon 
Than  that  one  finger  of  yours  should  soil  her  glove. 


SHERWOOD 


159 


JOHN 

So  here's  an  end  of  fawning,  here's  the  truth, 

My  old  white-bearded  hypocrite.  Come,  take  her, 

Waste  no  more  time.  Let  not  the  old  fool  daunt  you 
With  that  great  skewer. 

FITZWALTER 

[As  John's  men  advance.] 

By  God,  since  you  will  have  it, 

Since  you  will  drive  me  to  my  last  resort, 

Break  down  my  walls,  and  hound  me  to  the  forest, 

This  is  the  truth!  Out  of  my  gates!  Ho,  help! 

A Robin  Hood!  A Robin  Hood! 

[There  is  a clamour  from  the  upper  room.  The  doors  are  flung 
open  and  the  Foresters  appear  at  the  head  of  the  steps.] 

FRIAR  TUCK 

[Coming  down  into  the  hall  and  brandishing  his  quarter-staff.] 

A Robin? 

Who  calls  on  Robin  Hood?  His  men  are  here 
To  answer. 

FITZWALTER 

Drive  these  villains  out  of  my  gates. 

FRIAR  TUCK 

[To  Prince  John.] 

Sir,  I perceive  you  are  a man  of  wisdom, 

So  let  me  counsel  you.  There's  not  a lad 
Up  yonder,  but  at  four-score  yards  can  shoot 
A swallow  on  the  wing.  They  have  drunken  deep. 

I cannot  answer  but  their  hands  might  loose 
Their  shafts  before  they  know  it.  Now  shall  I give 
The  word?  Ready,  my  lads! 

[The  Foresters  make  ready  to  shoot.  John  hesitates  for  a 
moment 


160 


SHERWOOD 


JOHN 

My  Lady  Marian, 

One  word,  and  then  111  take  my  leave  of  you! 

[She  pays  no  heed.] 

'Farewell,  then!  I have  five-score  men  at  hand! 

And  they  shall  be  but  lightning  to  the  hell 
Of  my  revenge,  Fitzwalter.  I will  not  leave 
One  stone  upon  another.  From  this  night's  work 
Shall  God  Himself  not  save  you. 

[Exeunt  John  and  his  men.] 

FRIAR  TUCK 
[As  they  go  out.] 

My  Lord  Fitzwalter! 

I have  confessed  him!  Shall  I bid  ’em  shoot? 

Twill  save  a world  of  trouble. 

FITZWALTER 

No;  or  the  King 

Himself  will  come  against  me.  Follow  them  out, 

Drive  them  out  of  my  gates,  then  raise  the  drawbridge 
And  let  none  cross.  Oh,  I foresaw,  foretold! 

Robin  has  wrecked  us  all! 

[Exeunt  the  Foresters  and  Fitzwalter.  Shadow-of-a-Leaf 
remains  alone  with  Marian.] 


MARIAN 

flings  herself  down  on  a couch  and  buries  her  head  in  her 
arms.] 

0 Robin,  Robin, 

I cannot  lose  you  now! 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
[Sitting  at  her  feet.  The  lights  grow  dim.] 

Ah,  well,  the  prince 

Promised  to  break  the  walls  down.  Don't  you  think 
These  villains  are  a sort  of  ploughshare,  lady, 

And  where  they  plough,  who  knows  what  wheat  may  spring! 


SHERWOOD 


161 


The  lights  are  burning  low  and  very  low; 

So,  Lady  Marian,  let  me  tell  my  dream. 

There  was  a forester  that  bled  to  death 
Because  of  four  grey  walls  and  a black  nun 
Whose  face  I could  not  see — but,  oh,  beware! 
Though  I am  but  your  fool,  your  Shadow-of-a-Leaf, 
Dancing  before  the  wild  winds  of  the  future, 

I feel  them  thrilling  through  my  tattered  wits 
Long  ere  your  wisdom  feels  them.  My  poor  brain 
Is  like  a harp  hung  in  a willow-tree 
Swept  by  the  winds  of  fate.  I am  but  a fool, 

But  oh,  beware  of  that  black-hooded  nun. 


MARIAN 

This  is  no  time  for  jesting,  Shadow-of-a-Leaf. 


SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

The  lights  are  burning  low.  Do  you  not  feel 
A cold  breath  on  your  face? 


MARIAN 

Fling  back  that  shutter! 
Look  out  and  tell  me  what  is  happening. 


SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
[Flinging  back  the  shutter.] 

Look, 

Look,  gossip,  how  the  moon  comes  dancing  in. 

Ah,  they  have  driven  Prince  John  across  the  drawbridge. 

They  are  raising  it,  now! 

[There  are  cries  in  the  distance , then  a heavy  sound  of  chains 
clanking  and  silence.  Shadow-of-a-Leaf  turns  from 
the  window  and  stands  in  the  stream  of  moonlight , 
pointing  to  the  door  on  the  left.] 

Look!  Look! 


11 


162 


SHERWOOD 


MARIAN 

[Starting  up  with  a cry  of  fear.] 

Ah! 

[The  tall  figure  of  a nun  glides  into  the  moonlit  hall  and  throw- 
ing hack  her  hood  reveals  the  face  of  Queen  Elinor.] 

ELINOR 

Lady  Marion, 

Tell  me  quickly,  where  is  Huntingdon  hiding? 

MARIAN 

The  Queen! 


ELINOR 

Yes!  Yes!  I donned  this  uncouth  garb 
To  pass  through  your  besiegers.  If  Prince  John 
Discover  it,  all  is  lost.  Come,  tell  me  quickly, 
Where  is  Robin? 


MARIAN 
Escaped,  I hope. 

ELINOR 

Not  here? 

MARIAN 

No! 


ELINOR 

Come,  dear  Lady  Marian,  do  not  doubt  me. 

I am  here  to  save  you  both. 

MARIAN 
He  is  not  here. 

ELINOR 

Ah,  but  you  know  where  I may  find  him,  Marian. 
All  will  be  lost  if  you  delay  to  tell  me 
Where  I may  speak  with  him.  He  is  in  peril. 

By  dawn  Prince  John  will  have  five  hundred  men 


SHERWOOD 


163 


Beleaguering  the  castle.  You  are  all  ruined 
Unless  you  trust  me!  Armies  will  scour  the  woods 
To  hunt  him  down.  Even  now  he  may  be  wounded, 
Helpless  to  save  himself. 

MARIAN 

Wounded! 

ELINOR 

Dear  child, 

Take  me  to  him.  Here,  on  this  holy  cross, 

My  mother’s  dying  gift,  I swear  to  you 
I wish  to  save  him. 


MARIAN 

Oh,  but  how? 

ELINOR 

Trust  me! 

MARIAN 

Wounded?  He  may  be  wounded!  Oh,  if  I could, 

I’d  go  to  him!  I am  helpless,  prisoned  here. 

My  father  . . . 


ELINOR 

I alone  can  save  your  father. 

Give  me  your  word  that  if  I can  persuade  him, 
You’ll  lead  me  to  your  lover’s  hiding  place, 

And  let  me  speak  with  him. 

[Enter  Fitzwalter.] 

Ah,  my  Lord  Fitzwalter! 

FITZWALTER 

The  queen!  0 madam,  madam,  I am  driven 
Beyond  myself.  This  girl,  this  foolish  girl 
Has  brought  us  all  to  ruin.  This  Huntingdon, 

As  I foresaw,  foresaw,  foretold,  foretold, 

Has  dragged  me  down  with  him. 


164 


SHERWOOD 


ELINOR 

I am  on  your  side, 

If  you  will  hear  me;  and  you  yet  may  gain 
A son  in  Robin  Hood. 


FITZWALTER 

Madam,  I swear 
I have  done  with  him.  I pray  you  do  not  jest; 

But  if  you’ll  use  your  power  to  save  my  lands  .... 
I was  provoked!  .... 

Prince  John  required  this  child  here — 

ELINOR 

Oh,  I know! 

But  you’ll  forgive  him  that!  I do  not  wonder 
That  loveliness  like  hers — 


FITZWALTER 

Ay,  but  you’ll  pardon 

A father’s  natural  anger.  Madam,  I swear 
I was  indeed  provoked.  But  you’ll  assure  him 
I’ve  washed  my  hands  of  Huntingdon. 


MARIAN 

His  men  are,  even  now,  guarding  your  walls! 
Father,  you  cannot,  you  shall  not — 


And  yet 


FITZWALTER 

Oh,  be  silent! 

Who  wrapt  me  in  this  tangle?  Are  you  bent 
On  driving  me  out  in  my  old  age  to  seek 
Shelter  in  caves  and  woods? 


ELINOR 

My  good  Fitzwalter, 

It  has  not  come  to  that!  If  you  will  trust  me 
All  will  be  well ; but  I must  speak  a word 
With  Robin  Hood. 


SHERWOOD 


165 


FITZWALTER 

You! 

ELINOR 

Oh,  I have  a reason. 
Your  daughter  knows  his  hiding  place. 

FITZWALTER 

She  knows! 

ELINOR 

Oh,  trust  them  both  for  that.  I am  risking  much! 
To-morrow  she  shall  guide  me  there.  This  bird 
Being  flown,  trust  me  to  make  your  peace  with  John. 

FITZWALTER 

But — Marian! 

ELINOR 

Shell  be  safer  far  with  Robin, 
Than  loitering  here  until  your  roof-tree  bums. 

I think  you  know  it.  Fitzwalter,  I can  save  you, 

I swear  it  on  this  cross. 

FITZWALTER 

But — Marian ! Marian ! 


ELINOR 

Your  castle  wrapt  in  flame!  , . . 

There's  nought  to  fear. 

If  she  could — Marian,  once,  at  a court  masque, 

You  wore  a page’s  dress  of  Lincoln  green, 

And  a green  hood  that  muffled  half  your  face, 

I could  have  sworn  ’twas  Robin  come  again — 

He  was  my  page,  you  know — 

Wear  it  to-morrow — go,  child,  bid  your  maid 
Make  ready — we’ll  set  out  betimes. 


SHERWOOD 


106 


MARIAN 

[Going  up  to  her  father.] 

Ill  go, 

If  you  will  let  me,  father.  He  may  be  wounded? 

Father,  forgive  me.  Let  me  go  to  him. 

ELINOR 

Go,  child,  first  do  my  bidding.  Hell  consent 
When  you  return. 

[Exit  Marian.] 

My  dear  good  friend  Fitzwalter, 
Trust  me,  I have  some  power  with  Huntingdon, 

All  shall  be  as  you  wish.  Ill  let  her  guide  me, 

But — as  for  her — she  shall  not  even  see  him 
Unless  you  wish.  Trust  me  to  wind  them  all 
Around  my  little  finger. 

FITZWALTER 

It  is  dark  here. 

Let  us  within.  Madam,  I think  you  are  right. 

And  you'll  persuade  Prince  John? 

ELINOR 

[As  they  go  up  the  steps.] 

I swear  by  this, 

This  holy  cross,  my  mother's  dying  gift! 

FITZWALTER 

It’s  very  sure  he'd  bum  the  castle  down. 

[Exeunt.] 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEA F 

[Coming  out  into  the  moonlight  and  staring  up  after  them.] 

The  nun!  The  nuh!  They'll  whip  me  if  I speak, 

For  I am  only  Shadow-of-a  Leaf,  the  Fool. 

f Curtain.] 


SHERWOOD 


167 


ACT  II 

Scene  I.  Sherwood  Forest:  An  open  glade , showing  on  the 

right  the  mouth  of  the  outlaw1 s cave.  It  is  about 
sunset.  The  giant  figure  of  Little  John  comes  out 
of  the  cave , singing. 

LITTLE  JOHN 
[Sinxjs.] 

When  Spring  comes  back  to  England 
And  crowns  her  brows  with  may, 

Round  the  merry  moonlit  world 
She  goes  the  greenwood  way. 

[He  stops  and  calls  in  stentorian  tones. \ 

Much!  Much!  Much!  Where  has  he  vanished  now, 

Where  has  that  monstrous  giant  the  miller’s  son 
Hidden  himself? 

[Enter  Much,  a dwarf-like  figure , carrying  a large  bundle  of 
ferns.] 


MUCH 

Hush,  hush,  child,  here  I am! 

And  here’s  our  fairy  feather-feeds,  ha!  ha! 

Come,  praise  me,  praise  me,  for  a thoughtful  parent. 

There’s  nothing  makes  a better  bed  than  ferns 
Either  for  sleeping  sound  or  rosy  dreams. 

LITTLE  JOHN 

Take  care  the  fern-seed  that  the  fairies  use 
Get  not  among  thy  yellow  locks,  my  Titan, 

Or  thou’lt  wake  up  invisible.  There’s  none 
Too  much  of  Much  already. 

MUCH 

[Looking  up  at  him  impudently .] 

It  would  take 

Our  big  barn  full  of  fern-seed,  I misdoubt, 

To  make  thee  walk  invisible,  Little  John, 

My  sweet  Tom  Thumb!  And,  in  this  troublous  age 


168 


SHERWOOD 


Of  forest-laws,  if  we  night- walking  minions, 

We  gentlemen  of  the  moon,  could  only  hunt 
Invisible,  there’s  many  and  many  of  us 
With  thumbs  lopped  off,  eyes  gutted  and  legs  pruned, 
Slick,  like  poor  pollarded  pear-trees,  would  be  lying 
Happy  and  whole  this  day  beneath  the  boughs. 

LITTLE  JOHN 

Invisible?  Ay,  but  what  would  Jenny  say 
To  such  a ghostly  midge  as  thou  would’st  be 
Sipping  invisibly  at  her  cherry  lips. 

MUCH 

Why,  there  now,  that’s  a teaser.  E’en  as  it  is 
(Don’t  joke  about  it)  my  poor  Jenny  takes 
The  smallness  of  her  Much  sorely  to  heart! 

And  though  I often  tell  her  half  a loaf 
(Ground  in  our  mill)  is  better  than  no  bread, 

She  weeps,  poor  thing,  that  an  impartial  heaven 

Bestows  on  her  so  small  a crumb  of  bliss 

As  me!  You’d  scarce  believe,  now,  half  the  nostrums, 

Possets  and  strangely  nasty  herbal  juices 

That  girl  has  made  me  gulp,  in  the  vain  hope 

That  I,  the  frog,  should  swell  to  an  ox  like  thee. 

I tell  her  it’s  all  in  vain,  and  she  still  cheats 
Her  fancy  and  swears  I’ve  grown  well  nigh  three  feet 
Already.  O Lord,  she’s  desperate.  She’ll  advance 
Right  inward  to  the  sources  of  creation, 

She’ll  take  the  reins  of  the  world  in  hand.  She’ll  stop 
The  sun  like  Joshua,  turn  the  moon  to  blood, 

And  if  I have  to  swallow  half  the  herbs 
In  Sherwood,  I shall  stalk  a giant  yet, 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  with  thee,  Little  John, 

And  crack  thy  head  at  quarter-staff.  But  don’t, 
Don’t  joke  about  it.  ’Tis  a serious  matter. 

LITTLE  JOHN 

Into  the  cave,  then,  with  thy  feather-bed. 

Old  Much,  thy  father,  waits  thee  there  to  make 
A table  of  green  turfs  for  Robin  Hood. 


SHERWOOD 


169 


We  shall  have  guests  anon,  O merry  times, 

Baron  and  Knight  and  abbot,  all  that  ride 
Through  Sherwood,  all  shall  come  and  dine  with  him 
When  they  have  paid  their  toll!  Old  Much  is  there 
Growling  at  thy  delay. 


MUCH 

[Going  towards  the  cave,] 

O,  my  poor  father. 

Now,  there’s  a sad  thing,  too.  He  is  so  ashamed 
Of  his  descendants.  Why  for  some  nine  years 
He  shut  his  eyes  whenever  he  looked  at  me; 

And  I have  seen  him  on  the  village  green 
Pretend  to  a stranger,  once,  who  badgered  him 
With  curious  questions,  that  I was  the  son 
Of  poor  old  Gaffer  Bramble,  the  lame  sexton. 

That  self-same  afternoon,  up  comes  old  Bramble 
White  hair  a-blaze  and  big  red  waggling  nose 
All  shaking  with  the  palsy;  bangs  our  door 
Clean  off  its  hinges  with  his  crab-tree  crutch, 

And  stands  there — framed — against  the  sunset  sky! 

He  stretches  out  one  quivering  fore-finger 
At  father,  like  the  great  Destroying  Angel 
In  the  stained  window:  straight,  the  milk  boiled  over, 

The  cat  ran,  baby  squalled  and  mother  screeched. 

Old  Bramble  asks  my  father — what — what — what 
He  meant — he  meant — he  meant!  You  should  have  seen 
My  father’s  hopeless  face!  Lord,  how  he  blushed, 

Red  as  a beet-root!  Lord,  Lord,  how  he  blushed! 

’Tis  a hard  business  when  a parent  looks 
Askance  upon  his  offspring. 

[Exit  into  the  cave.] 


LITTLE  JOHN 


Skip,  you  chatterer! 


Here  comes  our  master. 

[Enter  Robin  Hood.] 

Master,  where  hast  thou  been? 
I feared  some  harm  had  come  to  thee.  What’s  this? 

This  was  a cloth-yard  shaft  that  tore  thy  coat! 


170  SHERWOOD 

ROBIN 

Oh,  ay,  they  barked  my  shoulder,  devil  take  them. 

I got  it  on  the  borders  of  the  wood. 

St.  Nicholas,  my  lad,  they’re  on  the  watch. 

LITTLE  JOHN 

What  didst  thou  there?  They’re  on  the  watch,  i’  faith! 
A squirrel  could  not  pass  them.  Why,  my  namesake 
Prince  John  would  sell  his  soul  to  get  thy  head, 

And  both  his  ears  for  Lady  Marian; 

And  whether  his  ears  or  soul  be  worth  the  more, 

I know  not.  When  the  first  lark  flittered  up 
To  sing,  at  dawn,  I woke;  and  thou  wast  gone. 

What  didst  thou  there? 

ROBIN 

Well,  first  I went  to  swim 
In  the  deep  pool  below  the  mill. 

LITTLE  JOHN 

I swam. 

Enough  last  night  to  last  me  many  a day. 

What  then? 


ROBIN 

I could  not  wash  away  the  thought 
Of  all  you  told  me.  If  Prince  John  should  dare! 

That  helpless  girl!  No,  no,  I will  not  think  it. 

Why,  Little  John,  I went  and  tried  to  shoot 
A grey  goose  wing  thro’  Lady  Marian’s  casement. 

LITTLE  JOHN 

Oh,  ay,  and  a pink  nosegay  tied  beneath  it. 

Now,  master,  you’ll  forgive  your  Little  John, — 

But  that’s  midsummer  madness  and  the  may 
Is  only  half  in  flower  as  yet.  But  why — 

You  axe  wounded — why  are  you  so  pale? 


SHERWOOD 


171 


ROBIN 

No — no — 

Not  wounded;  but  oh,  my  good  faithful  friend, 

She  is  not  there!  I wished  to  send  her  warning* 

I could  not  creep  much  closer;  but  I swear 
I think  the  castle  is  in  the  hands  of  John. 

I saw  some  men  upon  the  battlements, 

Not  hers — I know — not  hers! 

LITTLE  JOHN 

Hist,  who  comes  here? 
[He  seizes  his  bow  and  stands  ready  to  shoot.] 

ROBIN 

Stop,  man,  it  is  the  fool.  Thank  God,  the  fool, 
Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  my  Marian’s  dainty  fool. 

How  now,  good  fool,  what  news?  What  news? 

[Enter  Shadow-of-a-leaf.] 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Good  fool! 

Should  I be  bad,  sir,  if  I chanced  to  bring 
No  news  at  all?  That  is  the  wise  man’s  way. 

Thank  heaven,  I’ve  lost  my  wits.  I am  but  a leaf 
Dancing  upon  the  wild  winds  of  the  world, 

A prophet  blown  before  them.  Well,  this  evening, 

It  is  that  lovely  grey  wind  from  the  West 
That  silvers  all  the  fields  and  all  the  seas, 

And  I’m  the  herald  of  May! 

ROBIN 

Come,  Shad ow-of-a- Leaf, 

I pray  thee,  do  not  jest. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
I do  not  jest. 

1 am  vaunt-courier  to  a gentleman, 

A sweet  slim  page  in  Lincoln  green  who  comes, 

Wood-knife  on  hip,  and  wild  rose  in  his  face, 


172 


SHERWOOD 


With  golden  news  of  Marian.  Oh,  his  news 

Is  one  crammed  honeycomb,  swelling  with  sweetness 

In  twenty  thousand  cells;  but  delicate! 

So  send  thy  man  aside. 


ROBIN 

Go,  Little  John. 
[Little  John  goes  into  the  cave.] 
Well,  Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  where  is  he? 


SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

At  this  moment 

His  hair  is  tangled  in  a rose  bush : hark, 

He  swears,  like  a young  leopard!  Nay,  he  is  free. 

Come,  master  page,  here  is  that  thief  of  love, 

Give  him  your  message.  Ill  to  Little  John. 

'{Exit  into  the  cave . Enter  Marian,  as  a page  in  Lincoln  green , 
her  j ace  muffled  in  a hood.] 


ROBIN 


Good  even,  master  page,  what  is  thy  news 
Of  Lady  Marian? 

[She  stands  silent.] 

Answer  me  quickly,  come, 


Hide  not  thy  face! 

[She  still  stands  muffled  and  silent.] 

Come,  boy,  the  fool  is  chartered, 
Not  thou;  and  111  break  off  this  hazel  switch 
And  make  thee  dance  if  thou,  not  answer  me. 
What?  Silent  still?  Sirrah,  this  hazel  wand 
Shall  lace  thee  till  thou  tingle,  top  to  toe. 

Ill  . . . 


MARIAN 

[Unmuffling.] 

Robin! 


ROBIN 

[Catches  her  in  his  arms  with  a cry.] 
Marian!  Marian! 


SHERWOOD 


173 


MARIAN 

Robin,  you  did  not  know  me. 


Fie  upon  you* 


ROBIN 

[ Embracing  her.] 

Oh,  you  seemed 

Ten  thousand  miles  away.  This  is  not  moonlight, 

And  I am  not  Endymion.  Could  I dream 
My  Dian  would  come  wandering  through  the  fern 
Before  the  sunset?  Even  that  rose  your  face 
You  muffled  in  its  own  green  leaves. 


MARIAN 

But  yo*2. 

Were  hidden  in  the  heart  of  Sherwood,  Robin, 

Hidden  behind  a million  mighty  boughs, 

And  yet  I found  you. 


ROBIN 

Ay,  the  young  moon  stole 
In  pity  down  to  her  poor  shepherd  boy; 

But  he  could  never  climb  the  fleecy  clouds 
Up  to  her  throne,  never  could  print  one  kiss 
On  her  immortal  lips.  He  lay  asleep 
Among  the  poppies  and  the  crags  of  Latmos, 

And  she  came  down  to  him,  his  queen  stole  down. 

MARIAN 

Oh,  Robin,  first  a rose  and  then  a moon, 

A rose  that  breaks  at  a breath  and  falls  to  your  feet* 

The  fickle  moon — Oh,  hide  me  from  the  world; 

For  there  they1  say  love  goes  by  the  same  law! 

Let  me  be  outlawed  then.  I cannot  change. 

Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  Prince  John  will  hunt  me  down! 
Prince  John — Queen  Elinor  will  hunt  me  down! 

ROBIN 

Queen  Elinor!  Nay,  but  tell  me  what  this  means? 

How  came  you  here? 


174 


SHERWOOD 


MARIAN 

The  Queen — she  came  last  night, 
Made  it  an  odious  kind  of  praise  to  me 
That  he,  not  three  months  wedded  to  his  bride, 

Should — pah! 

And  then  she  said  five  hundred  men 
Were  watching  round  the  borders  of  the  wood; 

But  she  herself  would  take  me  safely  through  them, 

Said  that  I should  be  safer  here  with  Robin, 

She  had  your  jname  so  pat — and  I gave  way. 

[Enter  Queen  Elinor  behind . She  conceals  herself  to  listen.] 

ROBIN 

Marian,  she  might  have  trapped  you  to  Prince  John, 
MARIAN 

No;  no;  I think  she  wanted  me  to  guide  her 
Here  to  your  hiding  place.  She  wished  to  s6e  you 
Herself,  unknown  to  John,  I know  not  why. 

It  was  my  only  way.  Her  skilful  tongue 
Quite  won  my  father  over,  made  him  think, 

Poor  father,  clinging  to  his  lands  again, 

He  yet  might  save  them.  And  so,  without  ado 
(It  will  be  greatly  to  the  joy  of  Much, 

Your  funny  little  man),  I bade  my  maid 
Jenny,  go  pack  her  small  belongings  up 
This  morning,  and  to  follow  with  Friar  Tuck 
And  Widow  Scarlet.  They'll  be  here  anon, 

ROBIN 

Where  did  you  leave  the  Queen? 

MARIAN 

Robin,  she  tried 

To  kill  me!  We  were  deep  within  the  wood 
And  she  began  to  tell  me  a wild  tale, 

Saying  that  I reminded  her  of  days 

When  Robin  was  her  page,  and  how  you  came 

To  Court,  a breath  of  April  in  her  life, 


SHERWOOD 


175 


And  how  you  worshipped  her,  and  how  she  grew 
To  love  you.  But  she  saw  you  loved  me  best 
(So  would  she  mix  her  gall  and  lies  with  honey), 

So  she  would  let  you  go.  And  then  she  tried 
To  turn  my  heart  against  you,  bade  me  think 
Of  all  the  perils  of  your  outlawry, 

Then  flamed  with  anger  when  she  found  my  heart 
Steadfast;  and  when  I told  her  we  drew  nigh 
The  cave,  she  bade  me  wait  and  let  her  come 
First,  here,  to  speak  with  you.  Some  devil’s  trick 
Gleamed  in  her  smile,  the  way  some  women  have 
Of  smiling  with  their  lips,  wreathing  the  skin 
In  pleasant  ripples,  laughing  with  their  teeth, 

While  the  cold  eyes  watch,  cruel  as  a snake’s 
That  fascinates  a bird.  I’d  not  obey  her. 

She  whipped  a dagger  out.  Had  it  not  been 
For  Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  who  dogged  us  all  the  way, 

Poor  faithful  fool,  and  leapt  out  at  her  hand, 

She  would  have  killed  me.  Then  she  darted  away 
Like  a wild  thing  into  the  woods,  trying  to  find 
Your  hiding  place  most  like. 

ROBIN 

0 Marian,  why, 

Why  did  you  trust  her?  Listen,  who  comes  here? 

[Enter  Friar  Tuck,  Jenny  and  Widow  Scarlet  ] 
Ah,  Friar  Tuck! 


MARIAN 
Good  Jenny! 

ROBIN 

And  Widow  Scarlet! 

FRIAR  TUCK 

0 children,  children,  this  is  thirsty  weather! 

The  heads  I have  cracked,  the  ribs  I have  thwacked,  the  bones 

1 have  bashed  with  my  good  quarter-staff,  to  bring 
These  bits  of  womankind  through  Sherwood  Forest* 


176 


SHERWOOD 


ROBIN 

What,  was  there  scuffling,  friar? 


FRIAR  TUCK 


Pounced  on  us,  ha!  ha!  ha! 


Some  two  or  three 


JENNY 

Mistress,  most  unchaste  ruffians. 


A score  at  least, 


FRIAR  TUCK 

They’ve  gone  home. 

Well  chastened  by  the  Church.  This  pastoral  staff 
Mine  oaken  Pax  Vobiscumy  sent  ’em  home 
To  think  about  their  sins,  with  watering  eyes. 

You  never  saw  a bunch  of  such  blue  faces, 

Bumpy  and  juicy  as  a bunch  of  grapes 
Bruised  in  a Bacchanalian  orgy,  dripping 
The  reddest  wine  a man  could  wish  to  see. 


ROBIN 

1 picture  it — those  big  brown  hands  of  thine 
Grape-gathering  at  their  throttles,  ha!  ha!  ha! 
Come,  Widow  Scarlet,  come,  look  not  so  sad. 

WIDOW  SCARLET 

O master,  master,  they  have  named  the  day 

For  killing  of  my  boy. 


ROBIN 

They  have  named  the  day 
For  setting  of  him  free,  then,  my  good  dame. 

Be  not  afraid.  We  shall  be  there,  eh,  Friar? 

Grape-gathering,  eh? 


FRIAR 

Thou’lt  not  be  there  thyself 
My  son,  the  game’s  too  dangerous  now,  methinks. 


SHERWOOD 


177 


ROBIN 

I shall  be  there  myself.  The  game's  too  good 
To  lose.  We’ll  all  be  there.  You’re  not  afraid, 
Marian,  to  spend  a few  short  hours  alone 
Here  in  the  woods  with  Jenny. 


Robin. 


MARIAN 

Not  for  myself, 


ROBIN 

We  shall  want  every  hand  that  day, 

And  you’ll  be  safe  enough.  You  know  we  go 
Disguised  as  gaping  yokels,  old  blind  men, 

With  patches  on  their  eyes,  poor  wandering  beggars, 
Pedlars  with  pins  and  poking-sticks  to  sell; 

And  when  the  time  is  come — a merry  blast 
Rings  out  upon  a bugle  and  suddenly 
The  Sheriff  is  aware  that  Sherwood  Forest 
Has  thrust  its  green  boughs  up  beneath  his  feet. 

Off  go  the  cloaks  and  all  is  Lincoln  green, 

Great  thwacking  clubs  and  twanging  bows  of  yew. 

Oh,  we  break  up  like  nature  thro’  the  laws 
Of  that  dark  world;  and  then,  good  Widow  Scarlet, 
Back  to  the  cave  we  come  and  your  good  Will 
Winds  his  big  arm  about  you  once  again. 

Go,  Friar,  take  her  in  and  make  her  cosy. 

Jenny,  your  Much  will  grow  three  feet  at  least 
With  joy  to  welcome  you.  He  is  in  the  cave. 

[Friar  Tuck  and  Widow  Scarlet  go  toivards  the  cave  A 

FRIAR  TUCK 

Now  for  a good  bowse  at  a drinking  can. 

I’ve  got  one  cooling  in  the  cave,  unless 
That  rascal,  Little  John,  has  drunk  it  all. 

[Exeunt  into  cave.] 

JENNY 
[To  Marian.] 

Mistress,  I haven’t  spoke  a word  to  you 

For  nigh  three  hours.  ’Tis  most  unkind,  I think. 

12 


178 


SHERWOOD 


MARIAN 

Go,  little  tyrant,  and  be  kind  to  Much. 

JENNY 

Mistress,  it  isn't  Much  I want.  Don't  think 
Jenny  comes  trapesing  through  these  awful  woods 
For  Much.  I haven't  spoke  a word  with  you 
For  nigh  three  hours.  'Tis  most  unkind,  I think. 

MARIAN 

Wait,  Jenny,  then,  I'll  come  and  talk  with  you. 

Robin,  she  is  a tyrant;  but  she  loves  me. 

And  if  I do  not  go,  she'll  pout  and  sulk 
Three  days  on  end.  But  she's  a wondrous  girl. 

She'd  work  until  she  dropped  for  me.  Poor  Jenny! 

ROBIN 

That's  a quaint  tyranny.  Go,  dear  Marian,  go; 

But  not  for  long.  We  have  so  much  to  say. 

Come  quickly  back. 

[Exit  Marian.  Robin  paces  thoughtfully  across  the  glade . 

Queen  Elinor  steals  out  of  her  hiding  place  and 
stands  before  him.] 

You  here! 

ELINOR 

Robin,  can  you 

Believe  that  girl?  Am  I so  treacherous? 

ROBIN 

It  seems  you  have  heard  whate'er  I had  to  say. 

ELINOR 

Surely  you  cannot  quite  forget  those  days 
When  you  were  kind  to  me.  Do  you  remember 
The  sunset  through  that  oriel? 


SHERWOOD 


179 


ROBIN 

Ay,  a god 

Grinning  thro’  a horse-collar  at  a pitiful  page, 

Dazed  with  the  first  red  gleam  of  what  he  thought 
Life,  as  the  trouveres  find  it!  I am  ashamed, 
Remembering  how  your  quick  tears  blinded  me! 

ELINOR 

Ashamed!  You — you — that  in  my  bitter  grief 
When  Rosamund — 


ROBIN 

I know!  I thought  your  woes, 
Those  tawdry  relics  of  your  treacheries, 

Wrongs  quite  unparalleled.  I would  have  fought 
Roland  himself  to  prove  you  spotless  then. 

ELINOR 

Oh,  you  speak  thus  to  me!  Robin,  beware! 

I have  come  to  you,  I have  trampled  on  my  pride, 
Set  all  on  this  one  cast!  If  you  should  now 
Reject  me,  humble  me  to  the  dust  before 
That  girl,  beware!  I never  forget,  I warn  you; 

I never  forgive. 


ROBIN 

Are  you  so  proud  of  that? 
ELINOR 

Ah,  well,  forgive  me,  Robin.  Fll  save  you  yet 
From  all  these  troubles  of  your  outlawry! 

Trust  me — for  I can  wind  my  poor  Prince  John 
Around  my  little  finger.  Who  knows — with  me 
To  help  you — there  are  but  my  twro  sons’  lives 
That  greatly  hinder  it — why,  yourself  might  reign 
Upon  the  throne  of  England. 


180 


SHERWOOD 


ROBIN 

Are  you  so  wrapped 

In  treacheries,  helplessly  false,  even  to  yourself, 

That  now  you  do  not  know  falsehood  from  truth, 
Darkness  from  light? 


ELINOR 

O Robin,  I was  true 

At  least  to  you.  If  I were  false  to  others, 

At  least  I — 


ROBIN 

No — not  that — that  sickening  plea 
Of  truth  in  treachery.  Treachery  cannot  live 
With  truth.  The  soul  wherein  they  are  wedded  dies 
Of  leprosy. 


ELINOR 

[Coming  closer  to  him.] 

Have  you  no  pity,  Robin, 
No  kinder  word  than  this  for  the  poor  creature 
That  crept — Ah,  feel  my  heart,  feel  how  it  beats! 

No  pity? 

ROBIN 

Five  years  ago  this  might  have  moved  me! 


No  pity? 


ELINOR 


ROBIN 

None.  There  is  no  more  to  say. 
My  men  shall  guide  you  safely  through  the  wood. 


ELINOR 


I never  forgive! 

[Enter  Marian  from  the  cave;  she  stands  silent  and  startled.] 


SHERWOOD 


181 


ROBIN 

My  men  shall  guide  you  back. 
[Calls.] 

Ho,  there,  my  lads! 

[Enter  several  of  the  Outlaws.] 

This  lady  needs  a guide 

Back  thro’  the  wood. 


ELINOR 

Good-bye,  then,  Robin,  and  good-bye  to  you, 

Sweet  mistress!  You  have  wronged  me!  What  of  that? 
For — when  we  meet — Come,  lead  on,  foresters! 

[Exeunt  the  Queen  and  her  guides .] 

MARIAN 

0 Robin,  Robin,  how  the  clouds  begin 

To  gather — how  that  woman  seems  to  have  brought 

A nightmare  on  these  woods. 

ROBIN 


Forget  it  all! 

She  is  so  tangled  in  those  lies  the  world 

Draws  round  some  men  and  women,  none  can  help  her. 

Marian,  for  God’s  sake,  let  us  quite  forget 

That  nightmare!  Oh,  that  perfect  brow  of  yours, 

Those  perfect  eyes,  pure  as  the  violet  wells 

That  only  mirror  heaven  and  are  not  dimmed 

Except  by  clouds  that  drift  thro’  heaven  and  catch 

God’s  glory  in  the  sunset  and  the  dawn. 

MARIAN 

It  is  enough  for  them  simply  to  speak 

The  love  they  hold  for  you.  But — I still  fear. 

Robin — think  you — she  might  have  overheard 
Your  plan — the  rescue  of  Will  Scarlet? 


182 


SHERWOOD 


ROBIN 


Why — 

No — No — some  time  had  passed,  and  yet — she  seemed 
To  have  heard  your  charge  against  her!  No,  she  guessed  it 
Come — let  us  brush  these  cobwebs  from  our  minds. 

Look  how  the  first  white  star  begins  to  tremble 
Like  a big  blossom  in  that  sycamore. 

Now  you  shall  hear  our  forest  ritual. 

Ho,  Little  John!  Summon  the  lads  together! 

[The  Outlaws  come  out  of  the  cave.  Little  John  Mows  a bug'te 
and  others  come  in  from  the  forest .] 

Friar,  read  us  the  rules. 

FRIAR  TUCK 

First,  shall  no  man 

Presume  to  call  our  Robin  Hood  or  any 
By  name  of  Earl,  lord,  baron,  knight  or  squire, 

But  simply  by  their  names  as  men  and  brothers: 

Second,  that  Lady  Marian  while  she  shares 
Our  outlaw  life  in  Sherwood  shall  be  called 
Simply  Maid  Marian.  Thirdly,  we  that  follow 
Robin,  shall  never  in  thought  or  word  or  deed 
Do  harm  to  widow,  wife  or  maid;  but  hold, 

Each,  for  his  mother’s  or  sister’s  or  sweetheart’s  sake, 

The  glory  of  womanhood,  a sacred  thing, 

A star  twixt  earth  and  heaven.  Fourth,  whomsoever 
Ye  meet  in  Sherwood  ye  shall  bring  to  dine 
With  Robin,  saving  carriers,  posts  and  folk 
That  ride  with  food  to  serve  the  market  towns 
Or  any,  indeed,  that  serve  their  fellow  men. 

Fifth,  you  shall  never  do  the  poor  man  wrong, 

Nor  spare  a priest  or  usurer.  You  shall  take 
The  waste  wealth  of  the  rich  to  help  the  poor, 

The  baron’s  gold  to  stock  the  widow’s  cupboard, 

The  naked  ye  shall  clothe,  the  hungry  feed, 

And  lastly  shall  defend  with  all  your  power 
All  that  are  trampled  under  by  the  world, 

The  old,  the  sick  and  all  men  in  distress. 


SHERWOOD 


183 


ROBIN 

So,  if  it  be  no  dream,  we  shall  at  last 
Hasten  the  kingdom  of  God's  will  on  earth. 

There  shall  be  no  more  talk  of  rich  and  poor, 

Norman  and  Saxon.  We  shall  be  one  people, 

One  family,  clustering  all  with  happy  hands 
And  faces  round  that  glowing  hearth,  the  sun. 

Now  let  the  bugle  sound  a golden  challenge 
To  the  great  world.  Greenleaf,  a forest  call! 

[Reynold  Greenleaf  blows  a resounding  call.] 

Now  let  the  guards  be  set;  and  then,  to  sleep! 

To-morrow  there'll  be  work  enough  for  all. 

The  hut  for  Jenny  and  Maid  Marian! 

Come,  you  shall  see  how  what  we  lack  in  halls 
We  find  in  bowers.  Look  how  from  every  branch 
Such  tapestries  as  kings  could  never  buy 
Wave  in  the  starlight.  You'll  be  waked  at  dawn 
By  feathered  choirs  whose  notes  were  taught  in  heaven. 

MUCH 

Come,  Jenny,  come,  we  must  prepare  the  hut 
For  Mistress  Marian.  Here's  a bundle  of  ferns! 

[They  go  into  the  hut . The  light  is  growing  dimmer  and  richer.] 

LITTLE  JOHN 

And  here's  a red  cramoisy  cloak,  a baron 

[Handing  them  in  at  the  door.] 

Dropt,  as  he  fled  one  night  from  Robin  Hood; 

And  here's  a green,  and  here's  a midnight  blue, 

All  soft  as  down.  But  wait,  I'll  get  you  more. 

[ Two  of  the  Outlaws  appear  at  the  door  with  deerskins . Shadow- 
of-a-Leaf  stands  behind  them  with  a great  bunch  of 
flowers  and  ferns.] 

FIRST  OUTLAW 

Here's  fawn-skins,  milder  than  a maiden's  cheek. 

SHABQW-OF-A-LEAF 

Oh,  you  should  talk  in  rhyme!  The  world  should  sing 
Just  for  this  once  in  tune,  if  Love  were  king! 


184 


SHERWOOD 


SECOND  OUTLAW 

Here’s  deer-skins,  for  a carpet,  smooth  and  meek. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

I knew  you  would!  Ha!  ha!  Now  look  at  what  I bring! 

[He  throws  flowers  into  the  hut,  spray  by  spray , speaking  in  a 
kind  of  ecstasy.] 

Here’s  lavender  and  love  and  sweet  wild  thymet 
And  dreams  and  blue-bells  that  the  fairies  chime, 

Here’s  meadow-sweet  and  moonlight,  bound  in  posies, 

With  ragged  robin,  traveller’s  joy  and  roses, 

And  here — just  three  leaves  from  a weeping  willow; 

And  here — that’s  best— deep  poppies  for  your  pillow. 

MUCH 

And  here’s  a pillow  that  I made  myself, 

Stuffed  with  dry  rose-leaves  and  grey  pigeon’s  down, 

The  softest  thing  on  earth  except  my  heart! 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

[Going  aside  and  throwing  himself  down  among  the  ferns  to  waicfl,} 
Just  three  sweet  breaths  and  then  the  song  is  flown! 

[Much  looks  at  him  for  a moment  with  a puzzled  face , then  turns 
to  the  hut  again.] 

MUCH 

Jenny,  here,  take  it — though  I’m  fond  of  comforts, 

Take  it  and  give  it  to  Maid  Marian. 

JENNY 

Why,  Much,  ’tis  bigger  than  thyself. 

MUCH 

Hush,  child. 

I meant  to  use  it  lengthways.  ’Twould  have  made 
A feather-bed  complete  for  your  poor  Much, 

Take  it! 


[The  Outlaws  all  go  into  the  cave. ] 


SHERWOOD 


185 


MARIAN 

0 Robin,  what  a fairy  palace! 

How  cold  and  grey  the  walls  of  castles  seem 
Beside  your  forest’s  fragrant  halls  and  bowers. 

I do  not  think  that  I shall  be  afraid 
To  sleep  this  night,  as  I have  often  been 
Beneath  our  square  bleak  battlements. 

ROBIN 

And  look, 

Between  the  boughs,  there  is  your  guard,  all  night, 

That  great  white  star,  white  as  an  angel’s  wings, 

White  as  the  star  that  shone  on  Bethlehem! 

Good-night,  sweetheart,  good-night! 

MARIAN 


Good-night! 


ROBIN 

One  kiss! 

Oh,  clear  bright  eyes,  dear  heavens  of  sweeter  stars, 

Where  angels  play,  and  your  own  sweeter  soul 
Smiles  like  a child  into  the  face  of  God, 

Good-night ! Good-night ! 

[Marian  goes  into  the  hut.  The  door  is  shut . Robin  goes  to 
the  mouth  of  the  cave  and  throws  himself  down  on  a 
couch  of  deerskins.  The  light  grows  dimly  rich  and 
fairy -like.] 


SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
[Rising  to  his  knees.] 

Here  comes  the  little  cloud ! 

[A  little  moonlit  cloud  comes  floating  down  between  the  tree-tops 
into  the  glade.  Titania  is  seen  reposing  upon  it * S he 
steps  to  earth.  The  cloud  melts  away.] 

How  blows  the  wind  from  fairyland,  Titania? 


186 


SHERWOOD 


TITANIA 

Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  the  wicked  queen  has  heard 
Your  master's  plan  for  saying  poor  Will  Scarlet. 

She  knows  Maid  Marian  will  be  left  alone, 

Unguarded  in  these  woods.  The  wicked  Prince 
Will  steal  upon  her  loneliness.  He  plots 
To  carry  her  away. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

What  can  we  do? 

Can  I not  break  my  fairy  vows  and  tell? 

TITANIA 

No,  no;  you  cannot,  even  if  you  would, 
Convey  our  fairy  lore  to  mortal  ears. 

When  have  they  heard  our  honeysuckle  bugles 
Blowing  reveille  to  the  crimson  dawn? 

We  can  but  speak  by  dreams;  and,  if  you  spoke, 
They'd  whip  you,  for  your  words  would  all  ring  false 
Like  sweet  bells  out  of  tune. 

SHABCW-OF-A-LEAF 

What  can  we  do? 


TITANIA 

Nothing,  except  on  pain  of  death,  to  stay 
The  course  of  Time  and  Tide.  There's  Oberon! 


Oberon! 


SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

TITANIA 


He  can  tell  you  more  than  L 
[Enter  Oberon.] 


OBERON 

Where's  Orchis?  Where's  our  fairy  trumpeter 
To  call  the  court  together? 


SHERWOOD 


187 


ORCHIS 

Here,  my  liege. 

OBERON 

Bugle  them  hither;  let  thy  red  cheeks  puff 

Until  thy  curled  petallic  trumpet  thrill 

More  loudly  than  a yellow-banded  bee 

Thro’  all  the  clover  clumps  and  boughs  of  thyme. 

They  are  scattered  far  abroad. 


ORCHIS 


Outroar  the  very  wasp! 

[Exit.] 


My  liege,  it  shall 


OBERON 

[As  he  speaks , the  fairies  come  flocking  from  all  sides  into  the 
glade.] 

Methinks  they  grow 

Too  fond  of  feasting.  As  I passed  this  way 

I saw  the  fairy  halls  of  hollowed  oaks 

All  lighted  with  their  pale  green  glow-worm  lamps. 

And  under  great  festoons  of  maiden-hair 

Their  brilliant  mushroom  tables  groaned  with  food. 

Hundreds  of  rose-winged  fairies  banqueted! 

All  Sherwood  glittered  with  their  prismy  goblets 
Brimming  the  thrice  refined  and  luscious  dew 
Not  only  of  our  own  most  purplest  violets, 

But  of  strange  fragrance,  wild  exotic  nectars, 

Drawn  from  the  fairy  blossoms  of  some  star 
Beyond  our  tree-tops!  Ay,  beyond  that  moon 
Which  is  our  natural  limit — the  big  lamp 
Heaven  lights  upon  our  boundary. 


ORCHIS 


The  Court  is  all  attendant  on  thy  word. 


Mighty  Rung, 


188 


SHERWOOD 


OBERON 
[With  great  dignity.] 

Elves,  pixies,  nixies,  gnomes  and  leprechauns, 

[He  pauses .] 

We  are  met,  this  moonlight,  for  momentous  councils 
Concerning  those  two  drowsy  human  lovers, 

Maid  Marian  and  her  outlawed  Robin  Hood. 

They  are  in  dire  peril;  yet  we  may  not  break 
Our  vows  of  silence.  Many  a time 
Has  Robin  Hood  by  kindly  words  and  deeds 
Done  in  his  human  world,  sent  a new  breath 
Of  life  and  joy  like  Spring  to  fairyland; 

And  at  the  moth-hour  of  this  very  dew-fall, 

He  saved  a fairy,  whom  he  thought,  poor  soul, 

Only  a may-fly  in  a spider’s  web, 

He  saved  her  from  the  clutches  of  that  Wizard, 

That  Cruel  Thing,  that  dark  old  Mystery, 

Whom  ye  all  know  and  shrink  from — 

[Exclamations  of  horror  from  the  fairies .] 

Plucked  her  forth, 

So  gently  that  not  one  bright  rainbow  gleam 
Upon  her  wings  was  clouded,  not  one  flake 
Of  bloom  brushed  off — there  lies  the  broken  web. 

Go,  look  at  it;  and  here  is  pale  Perilla 
To  tell  you  all  the  tale. 

[The  fairies  cluster  to  look  at  the  web , etc.] 

A FAIRY 

Can  we  not  make  them  free 
Of  fairyland,  like  Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  to  come 
And  go,  at  will,  upon  the  wings  of  dreams? 

OBERON 

Not  till  they  lose  their  wits  like  Shadow-of-a-Leaf. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
Can  I not  break  my  fairy  vows  and  tell? 


SHERWOOD 


189 


OBERON 

Only  on  pain  of  what  we  fairies  call 
Death! 


SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Death? 

OBERON 

Never  to  join  our  happy  revels, 

Never  to  pass  the  gates  of  fairyland 

Again,  but  die  like  mortals.  What  that  means 

We  do  not  know — who  knows? 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

If  I could  save  them! — 

I am  only  Shadow-of-a-Leaf! 

OBERON 

There  is  a King 

Beyond  the  seas.  If  he  came  home  in  time, 

All  might  be  well.  We  fairies  only  catch 

Stray  gleams,  wandering  shadows  of  things  to  come. 

TITANIA 

Oh,  if  the  King  came  home  from  the  Crusade! 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
Why  will  he  fight  for  graves  beyond  the  sea? 

OBERON 

Our  elfin  couriers  brought  the  news  at  dusk 

That  Lion-Heart,  while  wandering  home  thro’  Europe, 

In  jet-black  armour,  like  an  errant  knight, 

Despite  the  great  red  cross  upon  his  shield, 

Was  captured  by  some  wicked  prince  and  thrust 
Into  a dungeon.  Only  a song,  they  say, 

Can  break  those  prison-bars  There  is  a minstrel 


190 


SHERWOOD 


That  loves  his  King.  If  he  should  roam  the  world 
Singing  until  from  that  dark  tower  he  hears 
The  King  reply,  the  King  would  be  set  free. 

TITANIA 

Only  a song,  only  a minstrel? 

OBERON 

Ay; 

And  Blondel  is  his  name. 

[A  long , low  sound  of  wailing  is  heard  in  the  distance.  The 
fairies  shudder  and  creep  together.] 

TITANIA 

Hark,  what  is  that? 

OBERON 

The  cry  of  the  poor,  the  cry  of  the  oppressed, 

The  sound  of  women  weeping  for  their  children, 

The  victims  of  the  forest  laws.  The  moan 
Of  that  dark  world  where  mortals  live  and  die 
Sweeps  like  an  icy  wind  thro’  fairyland. 

And  oh,  it  may  grow  bitterer  yet,  that  sound ! 

’Twas  Merlin’s  darkest  prophecy  that  earth 
Should  all  be  wrapped  in  smoke  and  fire,  the  woods 
Hewn  down,  the  flowers  discoloured  and  the  sun 
Begrimed,  until  the  rows  of  lifeless  trees 
Against  the  greasy  sunset  seemed  no  more 
Than  sooty  smudges  of  an  ogre’s  thumbs 
Upon  the  sweating  forehead  of  a slave. 

While,  all  night  long,  fed  with  the  souls  of  men, 

And  bodies,  too,  great  forges  blast  and  burn 
Till  the  great  ogre’s  cauldrons  brim  with  gold. 

f The  wailing  sound  is  heard  again  in  the  distance. J 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

To  be  shut  out  for  ever,  only  to  hear 
Those  cries!  I am  only  Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  the  fool, 

I cannot  face  it!  Is  there  no  hope  but  this? 

No  hope  for  Robin  and  Maid  Marian? 


SHERWOOD 


191 


OBERON 

If  the  great  King  comes  home  from  the  Crusade 
In  time!  If  not, — there  is  another  King 
Beyond  the  world,  they  say. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Death,  that  dark  death! 
To  leave  the  sunlight  and  the  flowers  for  ever! 

I cannot  bear  it!  Oh,  I cannot  tell  them. 

FI!  wait — perhaps  the  great  King  will  come  home, 

If  not — Oh,  hark,  a wandering  minstrel's  voice? 


OBERON 

Who  is  drawing  hither?  Listen,  fairies,  listen! 

[Song  heard  approaching  thro1  the  wood.] 

Knight  on  the  narrow  way, 

Where  wouldst  thou  ride? 

“ Onward,"  I heard  him  say, 
“Love,  to  thy  side!  " 

“ Nay,"  sang  a bird  above; 

“ Stay,  for  I see 
Death  in  the  mask  of  love, 

Waiting  for  thee." 


[The  song  breaks  off.  Enter  a Minstrel,  leading  a great  white 
steed.  He  pauses , confronted  by  the  fairy  host.  The 
moonlight  dazzles  him.] 


SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Minstrel,  art  thou,  too,  free  of  fairyland? 
Where  wouldst  thou  ride?  What  is  thy  name? 

MINSTREL 


Is  BlondeL 


SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 


My  name 


Blondel! 


192 


SHERWOOD 


TIHE  FAIRIES 

l 

Blondel! 

MINSTREL 

And  I ride 

Through  all  the  world  to  seek  and  find  my  King! 

[He  passes  through  the  fairy  host  and  goes  into  the  woods  on  the 
further  side  of  the  glade,  continuing  his  song , which 
dies  away  in  the  distance.] 

[So7ig.] 

“ Death?  What  is  death?  ” he  cried. 

“ I must  ride  on, 

On  to  my  true  love’s  side, 

Up  to  her  throne!  ” 

[Curtain.] 


ACT  III 

Scene  I.  May-day.  An  open  place  ( near  Nottingham).  A 
crowd  of  rustics  and  townsfolk  assembling  to  see  the 
execution  of  Will  Scarlet. 

FIRST  RUSTIC 

A sad  may-day!  Where  yonder  gallows  glowers, 

We  should  have  raised  the  may-pole. 

SECOND  RUSTIC 

Ay,  no  songs, 

No  kisses  in  the  ring,  no  country  dances 

To-day;  no  lads  and  lasses  on  the  green, 

Crowning  their  queen  of  may. 

[Enter  Robin  Hood,  disguised  as  an  old  beggar , with  a green 
patch  on  one  eye.] 


ROBIN 


Is  this  the  place, 

Masters,  where  they’re  a-goin’  to  hang  Will  Scarlet? 


SHERWOOD 


193 


FIRST  RUSTIC 
Ay,  father,  more's  the  pity. 

ROBIN 

• Eh!  Don't  ye  think 

There  may  be  scuffling,  masters?  There's  a many 
That  seems  to  like  him  well,  here,  roundabouts. 

SECOND  RUSTIC 

Too  many  halberts  round  him.  There's  no  chance. 
ROBIN 

I've  heard  the  forest  might  break  out,  the  lads 
In  Lincoln  green,  you  wot  of!  If  they  did? 

FIRST  RUSTIC 

There's  many  here  would  swing  a cudgel  and  help 

To  trip  the  Sheriff  up.  If  Robin  Hood 

Were  only  here!  But  then  he's  outlawed  now. 

SECOND  RUSTIC 

Ay,  and  there's  big  rewards  out.  It  would  be 
Sure  death  for  him  to  try  a rescue  now. 

The  biggest  patch  of  Lincoln  Green  we'll  see 
This  day,  is  that  same  patch  on  thy  old  eye, 

Eh,  lads! 


THIRD  RUSTIC 

What's  more,  they  say  Prince  John  is  out 
This  very  day,  scouring  thro'  Sherwood  forest 
In  quest  of  Lady  Marian! 

ROBIN 

[Sharply,] 

You  heard  that? 

THIRD  RUSTIC 

Ay,  for  they  say  she’s  flown  to  Sherwood  forest. 

13 


194 


SHERWOOD 


SECOND  RUSTIC 

Ah!  Ah?  That’s  why  he  went.  I saw  Prince  John! 

With  these  same  eyes  I saw  him  riding  out 
To  Sherwood,  not  an  hour  ago. 

* * 

ROBIN 

You  saw  him? 

SECOND  RUSTIC 
Ay.  and  he  only  took  three  men  at  arms. 

FIRST  RUSTIC 

Three  men  at  arms!  Why  then,  he  must  ha’  known 
That  Robin’s  men  would  all  be  busy  here! 

He’s  none  so  bold,  he  would  not  risk  his  skin! 

I think  there’ll  be  some  scuffling  after  all. 

ROBIN 

Ay,  tell  ’em  so — go,  spread  it  thro’  the  crowd! 

[He  mutters  to  himself.} 

He’d  take  some  time,  to  find  her,  but  ’fore  God 
We  must  be  quick;  ’fore  God  we  must  be  quick! 

SECOND  RUSTIC 

Why,  father,  one  would  never  think  to  see  thee 
Thou  had’st  so  sound  a heart! 

FIRST  RUSTIC 

Ah,  here  they  come! 

The  Sheriff  and  his  men;  and,  in  the  midst, 

There’s  poor  Will  Scarlet  bound. 

THE  CROWD  MURMURS 

Ah,  here  they  come! 

Look  at  the  halberts  shining!  Can  you  see  him? 


SHERWOOD 


195 


FIRST  RUSTIC 

There,  there  he  is.  His  face  is  white:  but,  Lord, 
He  takes  it  bravely. 

SECOND  RUSTIC 

He’s  a brave  man,  Will. 

SHERIFF 

Back  with  the  crowd  there,  guards;  delay  no  time! 


SOME  WOMEN  IN  THE  CROWD 
Ah,  ah,  poor  lad! 


ROBIN 

[Eagerly.] 

What  are  they  doing  now? 

I cannot  see! 


FIRST  RUSTIC 
The  Sheriff’s  angered  now! 

SECOND  RUSTIC 
Ay,  for  they  say  a messenger  has  come 
From  that  same  godless  hangman  whose  lean  neck 
I’d  like  to  twist,  saying  he  is  delayed. 

’Tis  the  first  godly  deed  he  has  ever  done. 

THIRD  RUSTIC 

The  Sheriff  says  he  will  not  be  delayed. 

But  who  will  take  the  hangman’s  office? 


ROBIN 


Masters, 

I have  a thought;  make  way;  let  me  bespeak 
The  Sheriff! 


RUSTICS 

How  now,  father,  what’s  to  do? 


196 


SHERWOOD 


ROBIN 

Make  way,  I tell  you.  Here’s  the  man  they  want! 

SHERIFF 

What’s  this? 

ROBIN 

Good  master  Sheriff,  I’ve  a grudge 
Against  Will  Scarlet.  Let  me  have  the  task 
Of  sending  him  to  heaven! 


CROWD 

Ah-h-h,  the  old  devil! 
SHERIFF 

Come  on,  then,  and  be  brief! 

ROBIN 

I’m  not  a hangman; 

But  I can  cleave  your  thinnest  hazel  wand 
At  sixty  yards. 


SHERIFF 

Shoot,  then,  and  make  an  end. 
Make  way  there,  clear  the  way! 

[An  opening  is  made  in  the  crowd . Robin  stands  in  the  ga/p}, 
Will  Scarlet  is  not  seen  by  the  audience*] 

CROWD 

Ah-h-h,  the  old  devil ! 

ROBIN 

I’ll  shoot  him  one  on  either  side,  just  graze  him, 

To  show  you  how  I love  him;  then  the  third 
Slick  in  his  heart. 

[He  shoots.  A murmur  goes  up  from  the  crowd.  The  crowd 
hides  Will  Scarlet  during  the  shooting . But  Robin 
remains  in  full  view , in  the  opening.] 


SHERWOOD 


197 


SHERIFF 

[Angrily.] 

Take  care!  You've  cut  the  cord 
That  bound  him  on  that  side! 


I will  be  careful! 


ROBIN 

Then  here's  the  second! 
[He  takes  a steady  aim.] 


A RUSTIC  TO  HIS  NEIGHBOURS 

I'  faith,  lads,  he  can  shoot! 
What  do  you  think — that  green  patch  on  his  eye 
Smacks  of  the  merry  men!  He's  tricking  them! 

[Robin  shoots , A louder  murmur  goes  up  from  the  crowd.] 


SHERIFF 

You  have  cut  the  rope  again! 


A CRY 

He  has  cut  him  free! 


ROBIN 

All  right!  All  right!  It's  just  to  tease  the  dog! 

Here's  for  the  third  now! 

[He  aims  and  shoots  quickly . There  is  a loud  cry  of  a wounded 
man ; then  a shout  from  the  crowd.] 

THE  CROWD 

Ah-h-h,  he  has  missed;  he  has  killed 
One  of  the  guards! 


FIRST  RUSTIC 

What  has  he  done? 

SECOND  RUSTIC 


One  of  the  Sheriff's  men ! 


He  has  killed 


198 


SHERWOOD 


SHERIFF 

There’s  treachery  here! 
I’ll  cleave  the  first  man’s  heart  that  moves! 


ROBIN 

Pick  up  that  dead  man’s  halbert! 

SHERIFF 

Down  with  the  villain! 


Will  Scarlet, 
Treachery!  Help! 


ROBIN 

[Throws  off  his  beggar’s  crouch  and  hurls  the  Sheriff  and  several 
of  his  men  back  amongst  the  crowd.  His  cloak  drops  off.] 
Sherwood!  A merry  Sherwood! 

CROWD 

Ah!  ha!  The  Lincoln  Green!  A Robin  Hood! 

[A  bugle  rings  out  and  immediately  some  of  the  yokels  throw  off 
their  disguise  and  the  Lincoln  green  appears  as  by 
magic  amongst  the  crowd.  The  guards  are  rushed  and 
hustled  by  them.  Robin  and  several  of  his  men  make 
a ring  round  Will  Scarlet*. ] 

SHERIFF 

It  is  the  outlawed  Earl  of  Huntingdon : 

There  is  a great  reward  upon  his  head. 

Down  with  him! 

[The  Sheriff’s  men  make  a rush  at  the  little  band.  A Knight 
in  jet  black  armour , with  a red-cross  shield , suddenly  ap- 
pears and  forces  his  way  through  the  mob , sword  in 
hand.] 

KNIGHT 

What,  so  many  against  so  few! 

Back,  you  wild  wolves.  Now,  foresters,  follow  me, 

For  our  St.  George  and  merry  England,  charge, 

Charge  them,  my  lads! 

[The  Foresters  make  a rush  with  him  and  the  Sheriff  and  his 
men  take  to  flight.] 


SHERWOOD 


199 


ROBIN 

Now  back  to  Sherwood,  swiftly! 

A horse,  or  I shall  come  too  late;  a horse! 

[He  sees  the  Knight  in  armour  standing  by  his  horse.) 

Your  pardon,  sir;  our  debt  to  you  is  great, 

Too  great  almost  for  thanks;  but  if  you  be 
Bound  by  the  vows  of  chivalry,  I pray  you 
Lend  me  your  charger;  and  my  men  will  bring  you 
To  my  poor  home  in  Sherwood.  There  you'll  find 
A most  abundant  gratitude. 

KNIGHT 

Your  name? 

ROBIN 

Was  Huntingdon;  but  now  is  Robin  Hood. 

KNIGHT 

If  I refuse? 

ROBIN 

Then,  sir,  I must  perforce 
Take  it.  I am  an  outlaw,  but  the  law 
Of  manhood  still  constrains  me — 'tis  a matter 
Of  life  and  death — 

KNIGHT 

Take  it  and  God  be  with  you! 
Fll  follow  you  to  Sherwood  with  your  men. 

[Robin  seizes  the  horse , leaps  to  the  saddle , and  gallops  away.] 
[Curtain.] 


Scene  II.  Sherwood  Forest.  Outside  the  cave.  Jenny,  Marian 
and  Widow  Scarlet. 

MARIAN 

This  dreadful  waiting!  How  I wish  that  Robin 
Had  listened  to  the  rest  and  stayed  with  me. 

How  still  the  woods  are!  Jenny,  do  you  think 


200 


SHERWOOD 


There  will  be  fighting?  Oh,  I am  selfish,  mother; 

You  need  not  be  afraid.  Robin  will  bring 
Will  Scarlet  safely  back  to  Sherwood.  Wiry, 

Perhaps  they  are  all  returning  even  now! 

Cheer  up ! How  long  d'you  think  they've  been  away, 

Jenny,  six  hours  or  more?  The  sun  is  high, 

And  all  the  dew  is  gone. 

JENNY 

Nay,  scarce  three  hours. 

Now  don't  you  keep  a-fretting.  They'll  be  back, 

Quite  soon  enough.  I've  scarcely  spoke  with  you, 

This  last  three  days  and  more;  and  even  now 
It  seems  I cannot  get  you  to  myself, 

Two's  quite  enough. 

[To  Widow  Scarlet.] 

Come,  widow,  come  with  me. 
I'll  give  you  my  own  corner  in  the  hut 
And  make  you  cosy.  If  you  take  a nap 
Will  Scarlet  will  be  here  betimes  you  wake. 

[Takes  her  to  the  hut  and  shuts  her  in.\ 

There,  drat  her,  for  a mumping  mumble-crust! 

MARIAN 

Come,  Jenny,  that's  too  bad;  the  poor  old  dame 
Is  lonely. 

JENNY 

She's  not  lonely  when  she  sleeps, 

And  if  I never  get  you  to  myself 

Where  was  the  good  of  trapesing  after  you 

And  living  here  in  Sherwood  like  wild  rabbits? 

You  ha'nt  so  much  as  let  me  comb  your  hair 
This  last  three  days  and  more. 

MARIAN 

Well,  comb  it,  Jenny, 
Now,  if  you  like,  and  comb  it  all  day  long; 

But  don't  get  crabbed,  and  don't  speak  so  crossly! 

[Jenny  begins  loosening  Marian's  hair  and  combing  it.] 


SHERWOOD 


201 


JENNY 

Why,  Mistress,  it  grows  longer  every  day. 

It’s  far  below  your  knees,  and  how  it  shines! 
And  wavy,  just  like  Much  the  Miller's  brook, 
Where  it  conies  tumbling  out  into  the  sun, 
Like  gold,  red  gold. 


MARIAN 

Ah,  that's  provoking,  Jenny, 
For  you  forgot  to  bring  me  my  steel  glass, 

And,  if  you  chatter  so,  I shall  soon  want  it. 

JENNY 

I've  found  a very  good  one  at  a pinch. 

There's  a smooth  silver  pool,  down  in  the  stream, 

Where  you  can  see  your  face  most  beautiful. 

MARIAN 

So  that's  how  Jenny  spends  her  lonely  hours, 

A sad  female  Narcissus,  while  poor  Much  ' 

D wines  to  an  Echo! 


JENNY 

I don't  like  those  gods, 
I never  cared  for  them.  But,  as  for  Much, 

Much  is  the  best  of  all  the  merry  men. 

And,  mistress,  O,  he  speaks  so  beautifully, 

It  might  be  just  an  Echo  from  blue  hills 
Far,  far  away!  You  see  he's  quite  a scholar: 

Much,  more  an'  most  (That's  what  he  calls  the  three 
Greasy  caparisons — much,  more  an'  most) ! 

You  see  they  thought  that  being  so  very  small 
They  could  not  make  him  grow  to  be  a man, 

They'd  make  a scholar  of  him  instead.  The  Friar 
Taught  him  his  letters.  He  can  write  his  name, 

And  mine,  and  yours,  just  like  a missal  book, 

In  lovely  colours;  and  he  always  draws 
The  first  big  letter  of  Jenny  like  a tree 
With  naked  Cupids  hiding  in  the  branches. 


202 


SHERWOOD 


Mistress,  I don’t  believe  you  hear  one  word 
I ever  speak  to  you!  Your  eyes  are  always 
That  far  and  far  away. 


MARIAN 

I'm  listening,  Jenny! 

JENNY 

Well,  when  he  draws  the  first  big  M of  yours, 

He  makes  it  like  a bridge  from  earth  to  heaven, 

With  white- winged  angels  passing  up  and  down; 

And,  underneath  the  bridge,  in  a black  stream, 

He  puts  the  drowning  face  of  the  bad  Prince 
Holding  his  wicked  hands  out,  while  a devil 
Stands  on  the  bank  and  with  a pointed  stake 
Keeps  him  from  landing — 

Ah,  what’s  that?  What’s  that? 

MARIAN 

0 Jenny,  how  you  startled  me! 

JENNY 

I thought 

1 saw  that  same  face  peering  thro’  the  ferns 
Yonder — there — see,  they  are  shaking  still. 

[She  screams.] 

Ah!  Ah! 

[Prince  John  and  another  man  appear  advancing  acrow 
glade.] 


JOHN 

So  here’s  my  dainty  tigress  in  her  den, 

And — Warman — there’s  a pretty  scrap  for  you 
Beside^her.  Now,  sweet  mistress,  will  you  deign 
To  come  with  me,  to  change  these  cheerless  woods 
For  something  queenlier?  If  I be  not  mistaken, 
You  have  had  time  to  tire  of  that  dark  cave. 

Was  I not  right,  now?  Surely  you  can  see 


SHERWOOD 


203 


"Those  tresses  were  not  meant  to  waste  their  gold 
Upon  this  desert.  Nay,  but  Marian,  hear  me. 

I do  not  jest. 

[At  a sign  from  Marian,  Jenny  goes  quickly  inside  the  cave,] 
That’s  well!  Dismiss  your  maid! 

Warman,  remove  a little. 

[His  man  retires.] 

I see  you  think 

A little  better  of  me!  Out  in  the  wood 
There  waits  a palfrey  for  you,  and  the  stirrup 
Longs,  as  I long,  to  clasp  your  dainty  foot. 

I am  very  sure  by  this  you  must  be  tired 
Of  outlawry,  a lovely  maid  like  you. 

[He  draws  nearer .] 

MARIAN 

Wait — I must  think,  must  think. 

JOHN 

Give  me  your  hand! 

Why  do  you  shrink  from  me?  If  you  could  know 
The  fire  that  bums  me  night  and  day,  you  would  not 
Refuse  to  let  me  snatch  one  cooling  kiss 
From  that  white  hand  of  yours. 

MARIAN 

If  you  be  prince, 

You  will  respect  my  loneliness  and  go. 

JOHN 

How  can  I leave  you,  when  by  day  and  night 
I see  that  face  of  yours. 

I’ll  not  pretend 

I do  not  love  you,  do  not  long  for  you, 

Desire  and  hunger  for  your  kiss,  your  touch! 

I’ll  not  pretend  to  be  a saint,  you  see! 

I hunger  and  thirst  for  you.  Marian,  Marian,, 


You  are  mad! 


MARIAN 


204 


SHERWOOD 


JOHN 

Ay,  mad  for  you. 

Body  and  soul 

I am  broken  up  with  love  for  you.  Your  eyes 
Flash  like  the  eyes  of  a tigress,  and  I love  them 
The  better  for  it. 

Ah,  do  not  shrink  from  me! 

[Jenny  comes  out  of  the  cave  and  hands  Marian  a bow.  She 
leaps  back  and  aims  it  at  John.] 


MARIAN 

Back,  you  wild  beast,  or  by  the  heaven  above  us, 
I’ll  kill  you!  Now,  don't  doubt  me.  I can  shoot 
Truly  as  any  forester.  I swear, 

Prince  or  no  prince,  king  or  no  king,  I'll  kill  you 
If  you  should  stir  one  step  from  where  you  stand. 


JOHN 

Come,  come,  sweet  Marian,  put  that  weapon  down. 
I was  beside  myself,  was  carried  away. 

I cannot  help  my  love  for — 


MARIAN 

I’ll  not  hear 

Another  sickening  word : throw  down  your  arms, 

That  dagger  at  your  side. 


Marian,  I swear — 


JOHN 

Oh,  that's  too  foolish, 


MARIAN 

You  see  that  rusty  stain 
Upon  the  silver  birch  down  yonder?  Watch. 

[She  shoots . Then  swiftly  aims  at  him  again.] 

Now,  throw  your  weapon  down. 

[He  pulls  out  the  dagger  and  throws  it  down , with  a shrug  of  his 
shoulders.  One  of  his  men  steals  up  behind  Marian.] 


SHERWOOD 


205 


JENNY 


Ah,  Mistress  Marian, 


There's  one  behind  you!  Look! 

[The  man  springs  forward  and  seizes  Marian's  arms.) 


JOHN 

[Coming  forward  and  taking  hold  of  her  also.) 

So,  my  sweet  tigress, 

You're  trapped  then,  are  you?  Well,  we'll  waste  no  time! 
We'll  talk  this  over  when  we  reach  the  castle. 

Keep  off  the  maid,  there,  Warman;  I can  manage 
This  turbulent  beauty.  Ah,  by  God,  you  shall 
Come!  Ah?  God's  blood,  what's  this? 

[Marian  has  succeeded  in  drawing  her  dagger  and  slightly  wound- 
ing him.  She  wrests  herself  free.) 


MARIAN 


Keep  back,  I warn  you! 


JOHN 

[Advancing  slowly.) 

Strike,  now  strike  if  you  will.  You  will  not  like 
To  see  the  red  blood  spurting  up  your  hand. 

That's  not  maid's  work.  Come,  strike! 

[Robin  Hood  appears  at  the  edge  of  the  glade  behind  him 

You  see,  you  cannot! 

Your  heart  is  tenderer  than  you  think. 

ROBIN 

[Quietly.] 

Prince  John! 


JOHN 

[Turns  round  and  confronts  Robin,] 
Out  with  your  blade,  Warman;  call  up  the  rest! 
We  can  strike  freely  now,  without  a fear 
Of  marring  the  sweet  beauty  of  the  spoil. 

We  four  can  surely  make  an  end  of  him. 


206 


SHERWOOD 


Have  at  him,  lads,  and  swiftly,  or  the  thieves 

Will  all  be  down  on  us. 

[Robin  draws  his  sword  and  sets  his  back  to  an  oak.  The  other 
two  followers  of  Prince  John  come  out  of  the  wood.] 

ROBIN 

Come  on,  all  four! 

This  oak  will  shift  its  roots  before  I budge 

One  inch  from  four  such  howling  wolves.  Come  on; 

You  must  be  tired  of  fighting  women-folk. 

Come  on!  By  God,  sir,  you  must  guard  your  head 

Better  than  that, 

[He  disarms  Warman.] 

Or  you're  just  food  for  worms 

Already;  come,  you  dogs! 

PRINCE  JOHN 

Work  round,  you  three, 

Behind  him!  Drive  him  out  from  that  damned  oak! 

ROBIN 

Oh,  that's  a princely  speech!  Have  at  you,  sir! 

[He  strikes  Prince  John's  sword  out  of  his  hand  and  turns  sud- 
denly to  confront  the  others . John  picks  up  a dagger 
and  makes  as  if  to  stab  Robin  in  the  back.  At  the  same 
instant , bugles  are  heard  in  the  distance.  The  red-cross 
knight  flashes  between  the  trees  and  seizing  John's  arm 
in  his  gauntleted  handy  disarms  him}  then  turns  to  help 
Robin.] 


KNIGHT 

What,  four  on  one!  Down  with  your  blades,  you  curs, 

Or,  by  Mahound! — 

[The  three  men  take  to  flight . John  stands  staring  at  the  new- 
comer. The  Foresters  appear , surrounding  the 
glade.] 


SHERWOOD 


207 


JOHN 
[ Muttering .] 

What?  Thou?  Thou?  Or  his  ghost? 

No — no — it  cannot  be. 

ROBIN 

Let  them  yelp  home, 

The  pitiful  jackals.  They  have  left  behind 
The  prime  offender.  Ha,  there,  my  merry  lads, 

All’s  well ; but  take  this  villain  into  the  cave 
And  guard  him  there. 

[The  Foresters  lead  Prince  John  into  the  cave. ] 


JOHN 

[To  the  Foresters.] 

Answer  me  one  thing:  who 

Is  yonder  red-cross  knight? 


Whoe’er  he  be! 


A FORESTER 

No  friend  of  thine, 


KNIGHT 
[To  Robin.] 

I need  not  ask  his  name. 

1 grieve  to  know  it! 

ROBIN 

Sir,  I am  much  beholden 
To  your  good  chivalry.  What  thanks  is  mine 
To  give,  is  all  your  own. 


KNIGHT 

Then  I ask  this! 

Give  me  that  prisoner!  I think  his  life  is  mine. 


ROBIN 

You  saved  my  own,  and  more,  you  saved  much  more 
Than  my  poor  life  is  worth.  But,  sir,  think  well! 
This  man  is  dangerous,  not  to  me  alone, 

But  to  the  King  of  England;  for  he’ll  yet 
Usurp  the  throne!  Think  well! 


208 


SHERWOOD 


KNIGHT 

I have  more  reasons  than  you  know. 


I ask  no  more. 


ROBIN 

So  be  it. 

Ho!  Bring  the  prisoner  back! 

[The  Foresters  bring  Prince  John  back.  He  stares  at 
the  Knight  as  if  in  fear.] 

Sir,  you  shall  judge  him. 

This  prisoner  is  your  own. 


KNIGHT 

Then — let  him  go! 

FORESTERS 

What!  Set  him  free? 

ROBIN 

Obey! 

[They  release  Prince  John.] 

KNIGHT 

Out  of  my  sight; 

Go! 

PRINCE  JOHN 
What  man  is  this? 


KNIGHT 

Quickly,  get  thee  gone! 
[Prince  John  goes  out , shaken  and  white.] 

ROBIN 

We'll  think  no  more  of  him!  It  is  our  rule 
That  whomsoe'er  we  meet  in  merry  greenwood 
Should  dine  with  us.  Will  you  not  be  our  guest? 

KNIGHT 

That's  a most  happy  thought!  I have  not  heard 
A merrier  word  than  dinner  all  this  day. 

I am  well-nigh  starved. 


SHERWOOD 


209 


ROBIN 

Will  you  not  raise  your  visor 
And  let  us  know  to  whose  good  knightly  hand 
We  are  so  beholden? 


KNIGHT 

Sir,  you  will  pardon  me, 

If,  for  a little,  I remain  unknown. 

But,  tell  me,  are  you  not  that  Robin  Hood 
Who  breaks  the  forest  laws? 

ROBIN 

That  is  my  name. 

We  hold  this  earth  as  naturally  our  own 
As  the  glad  common  air  we  breathe.  We  think 
No  man,  no  king,  can  so  usurp  the  world 
As  not  to  give  us  room  to  live  free  lives, 

But,  if  you.  shrink  from  eating  the  King’s  deer — 

KNIGHT 

Shrink?  Ha!  ha!  ha!  I count  it  as  my  own! 

[The  Foresters  appear,  preparing  the  dinner  on  a table  of  green 
turfs , beneath  a spreading  oak . Marian  and  Jenny 
appear  at  the  door  of  the  hut . Jenny  goes  across  to  help 
at  the  preparations  for  dinner.] 

ROBIN 

Ah,  there’s  my  Lady  Marian!  Will  you  not  come 
And  speak  with  her? 

[He  and  the  Knight  go  and  talk  to  Marian  in  the  background.] 

LITTLE  JOHN 
[At  the  table.] 

The  trenchers  all  are  set; 

Manchets  of  wheat,  cream,  curds  and  honey-cakes, 

Venison  pasties,  roasted  pigeons!  Much, 

Run  to  the  cave;  we’ll  broach  our  rarest  wine 
To-day.  Old  Much  is  waiting  f or  thee  there 
To  help  him.  He  is  growling  roundly,  too, 

At  thy  delay. 

14 


210 


SHERWOOD 


MUCH 

[Going  towards  the  cave.] 

Ah  me,  my  poor  old  father! 

JENNY 

Fve  dressed  the  salt  and  strawed  the  dining  hall 
With  flowers. 

[Enter  Friar  Tuck  with  several  more  Foresters  and  Will 
Scarlet.] 

ROBIN 

Ah,  good  Will  Scarlet,  here  at  last! 
FRIAR  TUCK 

We  should  ha’  been  here  sooner;  but  these  others 
Borrowed  a farmer’s  market  cart  and  galloped 
Ahead  of  us! 

ROBIN 

Thy  mother  is  in  the  hut, 
Sheer  broken  down  with  hope  and  fearfulness, 

Waiting  and  trembling  for  thee,  Will.  Go  in, 

Put  thy  big  arm  around  her. 

[Will  Scarlet  goes  into  the  hut  with  a cry.  | 

SCARLET. 

Mother! 

FRIAR  TUCK 

You  see, 

My  sons,  you  couldn’t  expect  the  lad  to  run! 

There  is  a certain  looseness  in  the  limbs, 

A quaking  of  the  flesh  that  overcomes 
The  bravest  who  has  felt  a hangman’s  rope 
Cuddling  his  neck. 

ROBIN 

You  judge  him  by  the  rope 
That  cuddles  your  slim  waist!  Oh,  you  sweet  armful, 

Sit  down  and  pant!  I warrant  you  were  glad 
To  bear  him  company. 


SHERWOOD 


211 


FRIAR  TUCK 

Fll  not  deny  it! 

I am  a man  of  solids.  Like  the  Church, 

I am  founded  on  a rock. 

[He  sits  down.] 

ROBIN 

Solids,  i’  faith! 

Sir,  it  is  true  he  is  partly  based  on  beef ; 

He  grapples  with  it  squarely;  but  fluids,  too, 

Have  played  their  part  in  that  cathedral  choir 
He  calls  his  throat.  One  godless  virtue,  sir, 

They  seem  to  have  given  him.  Never  a nightingale 
Gurgles  jug!  jugl  in  mellower  tones  than  he 
When  jugs  are  flowing.  Never  a thrush  can  pipe 
Sweet,  sweet,  so  rarely  as,  when  a pipe  of  wine 
Summers  his  throttle,  well  make  him  sing  to  us 
One  of  his  heathen  ditties — The  Malmsey  BvM} 

Or  Down  the  Merry  Red  Lane! 

FRIAR  TUCK 

Oh,  ay,  you  laugh, 

But,  though  I cannot  run,  when  I am  rested 
Fll  challenge  you,  Robin,  to  a game  of  buffets, 

One  fair,  square,  stand-up,  stand-still,  knock-down  blow 
Apiece;  youll  need  no  more.  If  you  not  kiss 
The  turf,  at  my  first  clout,  I will  forego 
Malmsey  for  ever! 


ROBIN 

Friar,  I recant; 

You’re  champion  there.  Fists  of  a common  size 
I will  encounter;  but  not  whirling  hams 
Like  thine! 


FRIAR  TUCK 
I knew  it! 


JENNY 

[Approaching.] 

Please  you,  sirs,  all  is  ready! 


212 


SHERWOOD 


FRIAR  TUCK 

Ah,  Jenny,  Jenny,  Jenny,  that’s  good  news! 

[Will  Scarlet  comes  out  of  the  hut  with  his  arm  round  his 
mother.  They  all  sit  down  at  the  table  of  turfs . Enter 
Shadow-of-a-Leaf  timidly.] 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
Is  there  a place  for  me? 

A FORESTER 

Ay,  come  along! 

FRIAR  TUCK 

Now,  Robin,  don’t  forget  the  grace,  my  son. 

ROBIN 
[Standing  up.] 

It  is  our  custom,  sir,  since  our  repast 
Is  borrowed  from  the  King,  to  drain  one  cup 
To  him,  and  his  return  from  the  Crusade, 

Before  we  dine.  That  same  wine-bibbing  friar 
Calls  it  our  ‘grace’;  and  constitutes  himself 
Remembrancer — without  a cause,  for  never 
Have  we  forgotten,  never  while  bugles  ring 
Thro’  Sherwood,  shall  forget — Outlaws,  the  King! 

[All  stand  up  except  the  Knight.] 

CRIES 

The  King  and  his  return  from  the  Crusade! 

[They  drink  and  resume  their  seats,] 

ROBIN 

You  did  not  drink  the  health,  sir  Knight.  I hope 
You  hold  with  Lion-Heart. 

KNIGHT 

Yes;  I hold  with  him. 

You  were  too  quick  for  me.  I had  not  drawn 
These  gauntlets  off. 

But  tell  me,  Lady  Marian, 

When  is  your  bridal  day  with  Robin  Hood? 


SHERWOOD 


213 


MARIAN 

We  shall  be  wedded  when  the  King  comes  home 
From  the  Crusade. 


KNIGHT 

Ah,  when  the  King  comes  home? 
That's  music — -all  the  birds  of  April  sing 
In  those  four  words  for  me — the  King  comes  home, 

MARIAN 

I am  glad  you  love  him,  sir. 

ROBIN 

But  you're  not  eating? 
Your  helmet's  locked  and  barred!  Will  you  not  raise 
Your  visor? 


KNIGHT 

[Laughs.] 

Ha!  ha!  ha!  You  see  I am  trapped! 

I did  not  wish  to  raise  it!  Hunger  and  thirst 
Break  down  all  masks  and  all  disguises,  Robin. 

[He  rises  and  removes  his  helmet , revealing  the  face  of  Richard 
Cceur  de  Lion.] 


The  King! 


ROBIN 

[ They  all  leap  to  their  feet.] 

OUTLAWS 
The  King!  The  King! 


ROBIN 

But  oh,  my  liege, 

I should  have  known,  when  we  were  hard  beset 
Around  Will  Scarlet  by  their  swarming  bands, 

And  when  you  rode  out  of  the  Eastern  sky 

And  hurled  our  foemen  down,  I should  have  known 

It  was  the  King  come  home  from  the  Crusade! 


214 


SHERWOOD 


And  when  I was  beset  here  in  the  wood 
By  treacherous  hands  again,  I should  have  known 
Whose  armour  suddenly  burned  between  the  leaves! 

I should  have  known,  either  it  was  St.  George 
Or  else  the  King  come  home  from  the  Crusade! 

RICHARD 

Indeed  there  is  one  thing  that  might  have  told  you, 

Robin — a lover’s  instinct,  since  it  seems 
So  much  for  you  and  Marian  depends 
On  my  return. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
Sire,  you  will  pardon  me, 

For  I am  only  a fool,  and  yet  methinks 

You  know  not  half  the  meaning  of  those  words — 

The  King,  the  King  comes  home  from  the  Crusade! 

Thrust  up  your  swords,  heft  uppermost,  my  lads, 

And  shout — the  King  comes  home  from  the  Crusade. 

[He  leaps  on  a seat,  and  thrusts  up  the  King's  sword , heft  upper- 
most, as  if  it  were  a cross.] 

ROBIN 

Pardon  him,  sire,  poor  Shadow-of-a-Leaf  has  lost 
His  wits! 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
That’s  what  Titania  said  you’d  say, 

Poor  sweet  bells  out  of  tune!  But  oh,  don’t  leave, 

Don’t  leave  the  forest!  There’s  darker  things  to  come! 

Don’t  leave  the  forest!  I have  wits  enough  at  least 
To  wrap  my  legs  around  my  neck  for  warmth 
On  winter  nights. 


RICHARD 

Well,  you’ve  no  need  to  pass 
The  winter  in  these  woods — 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Oh,  not  tJud  winter! 


SHERWOOD 


215 


ROBIN 

Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  be  silent! 

[Shadow-of-a-Leaf  goes  aside  and  throws  himself  down  sobbing 
among  the  ferns,] 

RICHARD 

When  even  your  cave 

Methfnks  can  scarce  be  cheery.  Huntingdon, 

Your  earldom  we  restore  to  you  this  day! 

You  and  my  Lady  Marian  shall  return 
To  Court  with  us,  where  your  true  bridal  troth 
Shall  be  fulfilled  with  golden  marriage  bells. 

Now,  friends,  the  venison  pasty!  We  must  hear 
The  Malmsey  Butt  and  Down  the  Merry  Red  Lane * 

Ere  we  set  out,  at  dawn,  for  London  Town. 

ROBIN 

Allan-a-dale  shall  touch  a golden  string 
To  speed  our  feast,  sire,  for  he  soars  above 
The  gross  needs  of  the  Churchman! 

RICHARD 

AUan-a-D&le? 

WILL  SCARLET 

Our  greenwood  minstrel,  sire!  His  harp  is  ours 
Because  we  won  his  bride  for  him. 

RICHARD 

His  bride? 

REYNOLD  GREENLEAF 
Was  to  be  wedded,  sire,  against  her  will 
Last  May,  to  a rich  old  baron. 

RICHARD 

Pigeon-pie — 

And  Malmsey— yes — a rich  old  baron — tell! 


216 


SHERWOOD 


ROBIN 

Sire,  on  the  wedding  day,  my  merry  men 
Crowded  the  aisles  with  uninvited  guests; 

And,  as  the  old  man  drew  forth  the  golden  ring, 
They  threw  aside  their  cloaks  with  one  great  shout 
Of  ‘Sherwood’;  and,  for  all  its  crimson  panes, 

The  church  was  one  wild  sea  of  Lincoln  green! 

The  Forest  had  broken  in,  sire,  and  the  bride 
Like  a wild  rose  tossing  on  those  green  boughs, 
Was  borne  away  and  wedded  here  by  Tuck 
To  her  true  lover;  and  so — his  harp  is  ours. 

ALLAN-A-DALE 

No  feasting  song,  sire,  but  the  royal  theme 
Of  chivalry — a song  I made  last  night 
In  yonder  ruined  chapel.  It  is  called 
The  Old  Knight's  Vigil . 


RICHARD 

Our  hearts  will  keep  it  young! 

IAllan-a-dale  sings,  Shadow-of-a-Leaf  raises  his  head  among 
the  ferns.] 

[Song.] 

I 

Once,  in  this  chapel,  Lord 
Young  and  undaunted, 

Over  my  virgin  sword 
Lightly  I chaunted, — 

“Dawn  ends  my  watch.  I go 
Shining  to  meet  the  foe!” 

II 

“Swift  with  thy  dawn,”  I said, 

“Set  the  lists  ringing! 

Soon  shall  thy  foe  be  sped, 

And  the  world  singing! 

Bless  my  bright  plume  for  me, 

Christ,  King  of  Chivalry. 

IShadow-of-a-Leaf  rises  to  his  knees  amongst  the  ferns.] 


SHERWOOD 


217 


III 

“ War-worn  I kneel  to-night, 
Lord,  by  Thine  altar! 

Oh,  in  to-morrow’s  fight, 
Let  me  not  falter! 

Bless  my  dark  arms  for  me, 
Christ,  King  of  Chivalry. 


IV 

“Keep  Thou  my  broken  sword 
All  the  long  night  through 
While  I keep  watch  and  ward! 

Then — the  red  fight  through, 
Bless  the  wrenched  haft  for  me, 
Christ,  King  of  Chivalry. 


V 

“Keep,  in  thy  pierced  hands, 
Still  the  bruised  helmet: 
Let  not  their  hostile  bands 
Wholly  o’erwhelm  it! 

Bless  my  poor  shield  for  me, 
Christ,  King  of  Chivalry. 


VI 

“Keep  Thou  the  sullied  mail, 

Lord,  that  I tender 
Here,  at  Thine  altar-rail! 

Then — let  Thy  splendour 
Touch  it  once  . . . and  I go 
Stainless  to  meet  the  foe.” 

[Shadow-of-a-Leaf  rises  to  his  feet  and  takes  a step  towards  the 
minstrel.] 


[Curtain.  1 


218 


SHERWOOD 


ACT  IV 

Scene  I.  Garden  of  the  King's  Palace , Ent^er  John  and 
Elinor. 


ELINOR 

You  will  be  king  the  sooner!  Not  a month 
In  England,  and  my  good  son  Lion-Heart 
Must  wander  over-seas  again.  These  two, 

Huntingdon  and  his  bride,  must  bless  the  star 
Of  errant  knighthood. 

JOHN 

He  stayed  just  long  enough 
To  let  them  pass  one  fearless  honeymoon 
In  the  broad  sunlight  of  his  royal  favour, 

Then,  like  a meteor  off  goes  great  King  Richard, 

And  leaves  them  but  the  shadow  of  his  name 
To  shelter  them  from  my  revenge.  They  know  it! 

I have  seen  her  shiver  like  a startled  fawn 
And  draw  him  closer,  damn  him,  as  I passed* 

ELINOR 

They  would  have  flitted  to  the  woods  again 
But  for  my  Lord  Fitzwalter. 

JOHN 

That  old  fool 

Has  wits  enough  to  know  I shall  be  king, 

And  for  his  land’s  sake  cheats  himself  to  play 
Sir  Pandarus  of  Troy.  “’Tis  wrong,  dear  daughter^ 

To  think  such  evil.”  Pah,  he  makes  me  sick! 

ELINOR 

Better  to  laugh.  He  is  useful. 

JOHN 

If  I were  king! 

If  Richard  were  to  perish  over-seas! 

Td  — 


SHERWOOD 


219 


ELINOR 

You’d  be  king  the  sooner.  Never  fear: 
These  wandering  meteors  flash  into  their  graves 
Like  lightning,  and  no  thunder  follows  them 
To  warn  their  foolish  henchmen. 


JOHN 

[Looking  at  her  searchingly .] 
The  King’s  return? 


Shall  I risk 


ELINOR 

What  do  you  mean? 


. JOHN 

I cannot  wait  and  watch  this  Robin  Hood 
Dangle  the  fruit  of  Tantalus  before  me, 

Then  eat  it  in  my  sight!  I have  borne  enough! 
He  gave  me  like  a fairing  to  my  brother 
In  Sherwood  Forest;  and  I now  must  watch  him, 
A happy  bridegroom  with  the  happy  bride, 
Whose  lips  I meant  for  mine. 


I mean 


I love  to  see  it? 


ELINOR 

And  do  you  think 


JOHN 

Had  it  not  been  for  you 
He  would  have  died  ere  this! 


ELINOR 


Then  let  him  die! 


JOHN 

Oh,  ay,  but  do  you  mean  it,  mother? 


ELINOR 


I hate  him,  hate  him! 


God, 


220 


SHERWOOD 


JOHN 

Mother,  he  goes  at  noon 
To  Sherwood  Forest,  with  a bag  of  gold 
For  some  of  his  old  followers.  If,  by  chance 
He  fall — how  saith  the  Scripture? — among  thieves 
And  vanish — is  not  heard  of  any  more, 

I think  Suspicion  scarce  could  lift  her  head 
Among  these  roses  here  to  hiss  at  me, 

When  Lion-Heart  returns. 

ELINOR 

Vanish? 

JOHN 

I would  not 

Kill  him  too  quickly.  I would  have  him  taken 
To  a dungeon  that  I know. 

ELINOR 

You  have  laid  your  trap 
Already?  Tell  me.  You  need  not  be  afraid! 

I saw  them  kiss,  in  the  garden,  yesternight; 

And  I have  wondered,  ever  since,  if  fire 
Could  make  a brand  quite  hot  enough  to  stamp 
My  hate  upon  him. 

JOHN 

Well,  then,  I will  tell  you — 
The  plan  is  laid ; and,  if  his  bag  of  gold 
Rejoice  one  serf  to-day,  then  111  resign 
Maid  Marian  to  his  loving  arms  for  ever. 

But  you  must  help  me,  mother,  or  shell  suspect. 

Do  not  let  slip  your  mask  of  friendliness, 

As  I have  feared.  Look — there  our  lovers  come 
Beneath  that  arch  of  roses.  Look,  look,  mother, 

They  are  taking  leave  of  one  another  now, 

A ghastly  parting,  for  he  will  be  gone 

Well  nigh  four  hours,  they  think.  To  look  at  them, 

One  might  suppose  they  knew  it  was  for  ever. 


SHERWOOD 


221 


ELINOR 

Come,  or  my  hate  will  show  itself  in  my  face: 

I must  not  see  them. 

[Exeunt  Prince  and  Elinor.  A pause . Enter  Robin  Hood 
and  Marian.] 

ROBIN 

So,  good-bye,  once  more. 

Sweetheart. 


MARIAN 

Four  hours;  how  shall  I pass  the  time? 

Four  hours,  four  ages,  you  will  scarce  be  home 
By  dusk;  how  shall  I pass  it? 

ROBIN 

You’ve  to  think 

What  robe  to  wear  at  the  great  masque  to-night 
And  then  to  don  it.  When  you’ve  done  all  that 
I shall  be  home  again. 


MARIAN 

What,  not  before? 

ROBIN 

That’s  not  unlikely,  either. 

MARIAN 

Now  you  mock  me, 

But  you’ll  be  back  before  the  masque  begins. 

ROBIN 

I warrant  you  I will. 

MARIAN 
It  is  a month 

To-day  since  we  were  married.  Did  you  know  it? 

Fie,  I believe  you  had  forgotten,  Robin. 


222 


SHERWOOD 


ROBIN 

I had,  almost.  If  marriage  make  the  moons 
Fly,  as  this  month  has  flown,  we  shall  be  old 
And  grey  in  our  graves  before  we  know  it. 

I wish  that  we  could  chain  old  Father  Time. 

MARIAN 

And  break  his  glass  into  ten  thousand  pieces. 

ROBIN 

And  drown  his  cruel  scythe  ten  fathom  deep, 

Under  the  bright  blue  sea  whence  Love  was  bom: 

MARIAN 

Ah,  but  we  have  not  parted  all  this  month 
More  than  a garden’s  breadth,  an  arrow’s  flight: 

Time  will  be  dead  till  you  come  back  again. 

Four  hours  of  absence  make  four  centuries! 

Do  you  remember  how  the  song  goes,  Robin, 

That  bids  true  lovers  not  to  grieve  at  parting 
Often?  for  Nature  gently  severs  them  thus, 

Training  them  up  with  Land  and  tender  art, 

For  the  great  day  when  they  must  part  for  ever. 

ROBIN 

Do  you  believe  it,  Marian? 

MARIAN 

No;  for  love 

Buried  beneath  the  dust  of  life  and  death, 

Would  wait  for  centuries  of  centuries, 

Ages  of  ages,  until  God  remembered, 

And,  through  that  perishing  cloud-wrack,  face  looked  up 
Once  more  to  loving  face. 


ROBIN 

Your  hope — and  mine) 

Is  not  a man’s  poor  memory,  indeed, 

A daily  resurrection?  Your  hope — and  mine! 


SHERWOOD 


223 


MARIAN 

And  all  the  world’s  at  heart!  I do  believe  it. 

ROBIN 

And  I — if  only  that  so  many  souls 

Like  yours  have  died  believing  they  should  meet 

Again,  lovers  and  children,  little  children ! 

God  will  not  break  that  trust.  I have  found  my  heaven 
Again  in  you;  and,  though  I stumble  still, 

Your  small  hand  leads  me  thro’  the  darkness,  up 
And  onward,  to  the  heights  I dared  not  see, 

And  dare  not  even  now;  but  my  head  bows 
Above  your  face;  I see  them  in  your  eyes. 

Love,  point  me  onward  still! 

[He  takes  her  in  his  arms,] 

Good-bye!  Good-bye! 


MARIAN 

Come  back,  come  back,  before  the  masque  begins! 


ROBIN 

Ay,  or  a little  later — never  fear: 
You’ll  not  so  easily  lose  me. 


The  minutes! 


MARIAN 

I shall  count 


ROBIN 

Why,  you’re  trembling! 

MARIAN 

Yes,  I am  foolish. 

This  is  the  first  small  parting  we  have  had; 

But — you’ll  be  back  ere  dusk? 


224 


SHERWOOD 


ROBIN 

[Laughing.] 

Ah,  do  you  think 

That  chains  of  steel  could  hold  me,  sweet,  from  you, 

With  those  two  heavenly  eyes  to  call  me  home, 

Those  lips  to  welcome  me?  Good-bye! 

MARIAN 

Good-bye! 

[He  goes  hurriedly  out.  She  looks  after  him  for  a momentf  then 
suddenly  calls.] 

Robin!  Ah,  well,  no  matter  now — too  late! 

[She  stands  looking  after  him.] 


Scene  II.  Sherwood  Forest:  dusk . Outside  the  cavef  as  in  the 
second  act.  Shadow-of-a-Leaf  runs  quickly  across 
the  glade , followed  by  Puck. 

PUCK 

Shadow-of-a-Leaf!  Shadow-of-a-Leaf ! Shadow-of-a-Leaf ! 
Don't  dance  away  like  that;  don't  hop;  don't  skip 
Like  that,  I tell  you!  I'll  never  do  it  again, 

I promise.  Don't  be  silly  now!  Come  here; 

I want  to  tell  you  something.  Ah,  that's  right. 

Come,  sit  down  here  upon  this  bank  of  thyme 
''While  I thine  amiable  ears" — Oh,  no, 

Forgive  me,  ha!  ha!  ha! 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Now,  Master  Puck, 

You'll  kindly  keep  your  word!  A foxglove  spray 
In  the  right  hand  is  deadlier  than  the  sword 
That  mortals  use,  and  one  resounding  thwack 
Applied  to  your  slim  fairyhood's  green  limbs 
Will  make  it  painful,  painful,  very  painful, 

Next  time  your  worship  wishes  to  sit  down 
Cross-legged  upon  a mushroom. 


SHERWOOD 


225 


PUCK 

Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Poor  Shadow-of-a-Leaf! 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

You  keep  your  word,  that's  all! 

PUCK 

Haven't  I kept  my  word?  Wasn't  it  I 
That  made  you  what  these  poor,  dull  mortals  call 
Crazy?  Who  crowned  you  with  the  cap  and  bells? 
Who  made  you  such  a hopeless,  glorious  fool 
That  wise  men  are  afraid  of  every  word 
You  utter?  Wasn't  it  I that  made  you  free 
Of  fairyland — that  showed  you  how  to  pluck 
Fern-seed  by  moonlight,  and  to  walk  and  talk 
Between  the  lights,  with  urchins  and  with  elves? 

Is  there  another  fool  twixt  earth  and  heaven 
Like  you — ungrateful  rogue — answer  me  that! 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
All  true,  dear  gossip,  and  for  saving  me 
From  the  poor  game  of  blind  man's  buff  men  call 
Wisdom,  I thank  you;  but  to  hang  and  buzz 
Like  a mad  dragon-fly,  now  on  my  nose, 

Now  on  my  neck,  now  singing  in  my  ears, 

Is  that  to  make  me  free  of  fairyland? 

No— that's  enough  to  make  the  poor  fool  mad 
And  take  to  human  wisdom. 

PUCK 

Yet  you  love  me, 

Ha!  ha! — you  love  me  more  than  all  the  rest. 

You  can't  deny  it!  You  can't  deny  it!  Ha!  ha! 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
I won't  deny  it,  gossip.  E'en  as  I think 
There  must  be  something  loves  us  creatures,  Puck, 
More  than  the  Churchmen  say.  We  are  so  teased 
With  thorns,  bullied  with  briars,  baffled  with  stars. 

15 


226 


SHERWOOD 


I’ve  lain  sometimes  and  laughed  until  I cried 
To  see  the  round  moon  rising  o’er  these  trees 
With  that  same  foolish  face  of  heavenly  mirth 
Winking-  at  lovers  in  the  blue-bell  glade. 


PUCK 

Lovers!  Ha!  ha!  I caught  a pair  of  ’em 
Last  night,  behind  the  ruined  chapel!  Lovers! 

0 Lord,  these  mortals,  they’ll  be  the  death  of  me! 
Hist,  who  comes  here? 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Scarlet  and  Little  John, 
And  all  the  merry  men — not  half  so  merry 
Since  Robin  went  away.  He  was  to  come 
And  judge  between  the  rich  and  poor  to-day, 

1 think  he  has  forgotten. 


PUCK 

Hist,  let  me  hide 
Behind  this  hawthorn  bush  till  they  are  gone. 

[Enter  the  Foresters — they  all  go  into  the  cave  except  Scarlet 
and  Little  John,  who  stand  at  the  entrance , looking 
anxiously  hack.] 

LITTLE  JOHN 

I have  never  known  the  time  when  Robin  Hood 
Said  “I  will  surely  come,”  and  hath  not  been 
Punctual  as  yonder  evening  star. 


SCARLET 

Pray  God 

No  harm  hath  fallen  him.  Indeed  he  said, 
‘‘Count  on  my  coming.” 


SHERWOOD 


227 


LITTLE  JOHN 

Fll  sound  yet  one  more  call. 
They  say  these  Courts  will  spoil  a forester. 

It  may  be  he  has  missed  the  way.  Fd  give 
My  sword-hand  just  to  hear  his  jolly  bugle 
Answer  me. 

[He  blows  a forest  call . They  listen.  All  is  silent .] 
SCARLET 

Silence — only  the  sough  of  leaves! 
LITTLE  JOHN 

Well,  Fm  for  sleep:  the  moon  is  not  so  bright 
Since  Robin  left  us. 

SCARLET 

Ha!  Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  alone? 
I thought  I heard  thy  voice. 

LITTLE  JOHN 

Oh,  he  will  talk 

With  ferns  and  flowers  and  whisper  to  the  mice! 
Perfectly  happy,  art  thou  not,  dear  fool? 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
Perfectly  happy  since  I lost  my  wits! 

SCARLET 

Pray  that  thou  never  dost  regain  them,  then, 
Shadow-of-a-Leaf. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

I thank  you  kindly,  sir, 

And  pray  that  you  may  quickly  lose  your  own, 

And  so  be  happy,  too.  Robin's  away, 

But,  if  you'd  lost  your  wits,  you  would  not  grieve. 

SCARLET 

Good-night,  good  fool. 


228 


SHERWOOD 


SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

I will  not  say  “Good-night,” 

Wise  man,  for  I am  crazed,  and  so  I know 
Tis  good,  and  yet  you’ll  grieve.  I wish  you  both 
A bad  night  that  will  tease  your  wits  away 
And  make  you  happy. 

The  Outlaws  enter  the  cave . Shadow-of-a-Leaf  beckons  to 
Puck,  who  steals  out  again.] 

PUCK 

Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  some  change 
Is  creeping  o’er  the  forest.  I myself 
Scarce  laugh  so  much  since  Robin  went  away! 

Oh,  my  head  hangs  as  heavily  as  a violet 
Brimmed  with  the  rain.  Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  a cloud, 

A whisper  steals  across  this  listening  wood! 

I am  growing  afraid.  Dear  fool,  I am  thy  Puck, 

But  I am  growing  afraid  there  comes  an  end 
To  all  our  Sherwood  revels,  and  I shall  never 
Tease  thee  again. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
Here  comes  the  King! 

[ Enter  Oberon.] 

Hail,  Oberon. 

King  of  the  fairies,  I strew  ferns  before  you. 

There  are  no  palms  here:  ferns  do  just  as  wrell! 

OBERON 

Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  our  battles  all  are  wasted; 

Our  fairy  dreams  whereby  we  strove  to  warn 
Robin  and  Marian,  wasted.  Shadow-of-a-Leaf, 

Dear  Robin  Hood,  the  lover  of  the  poor, 

And  kind  Maid  Marian,  our  forest  queen, 

Are  in  the  toils  at  last! 

[He  pauses.] 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Speak,  speak! 


SHERWOOD 


229 


OBERON 

Hath  trapped  and  taken  Robin. 


Prince  John 


SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Is  not  Richard 

King  of  this  England?  Did  not  Richard  tempt 
Robin,  for  Marian's  sake,  to  leave  the  forest? 
Did  he  not  swear  upon  the  Holy  Cross 
That  Robin  should  be  Earl  of  Huntingdon 
And  hold  his  lands  in  safety? 


OBERON 

Only  fear 

Of  Richard  held  the  wicked  Prince  in  leash. 

But  Richard  roamed  abroad  again.  Prince  John 
Would  murder  Robin  secretly. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Wise  men 

Fight  too  much  for  these  holy  sepulchres! 

Are  not  the  living  images  of  God 
Better  than  empty  graves? 

OBERON 

One  grave  is  filled 

Now;  for  our  fairy  couriers  have  brought 
Tidings  that  Richard  Lion-Heart  is  dead. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Dead? 

OBERON 

Dead!  In  a few  brief  hours  the  news  will  reach 
The  wicked  Prince.  He  will  be  King  of  England, 
With  Marian  in  his  power! 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

No  way  to  save  them! 


230 


SHERWOOD 


OBERON 

We  cannot  break  our  fairy  vows  of  silence. 

A mortal,  Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  can  break  those  vows, 

But  only  on  pain  of  death. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Oberon,  I, 

Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  the  fool,  must  break  my  vows! 

I must  save  Robin  Hood  that  he  may  save 
Marian  from  worse  than  death. 

OBERON 

Shadow-of-a-Leaf, 

Think  what  death  means  to  you,  never  to  join 

Our  happy  sports  again,  never  to  see 

The  moonlight  streaming  through  these  ancient  oaks 

Again,  never  to  pass  the  fairy  gates 

Again.  We  cannot  help  it.  They  will  close 

Like  iron  in  your  facef  and  you  will  hear 

Our  happy  songs  within;  but  you  will  lie 

Alone,  without,  dying,  and  never  a word 

To  comfort  you,  no  hand  to  touch  your  brow. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

So  be  it.  I shall  see  them  entering  in! 

The  time  is  brief.  Quick,  tell  me,  where  is  Robin? 
Quick,  or  the  news  that  makes  Prince  John  a king 
Will  ruin  all. 


OBERON 
Robin  is  even  now 

Thrust  in  the  great  dark  tower  beyond  the  wood, 
The  topmost  cell  where  foot  can  never  climb. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Cannot  an  arrow  reach  it?  Ay,  be  swift; 

Come,  lead  me  thither. 


SHERWOOD 


23  L 


OBERON 
I cannot  disobey 

The  word  that  kills  the  seed  to  raise  the  wheat, 

The  word  that — Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  I think  I know 
Now,  why  great  kings  ride  out  to  the  Crusade. 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
Quickly,  come,  quickly! 

[Exeunt  Oberon  and  Shadow-of-a-Leaf.  Puck  remains 
staring  after  them , then  vanishes  with  a sob , between 
the  trees . Little  John  and  Scarlet  appear  once 
more  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave.] 

SCARLET 

I thought  I heard  a voice. 

LITTLE  JOHN 

’Twas  only  Shadow-of-a-Leaf  again.  He  talks 
For  hours  among  the  ferns,  plays  with  the  flowers, 

And  whispers  to  the  mice,  perfectly  happy! 

SCARLET 

I cannot  rest  for  thinking  that  some  harm 
Hath  chanced  to  Robin.  Call  him  yet  once  more. 

[Little  John  blows  his  bugle . All  is  silent . They  stand 
listening.] 

Scene  III.  A gloomy  cell.  Robin  bound.  Prince  John 
and  two  mercenaries.  A low  narrow  door  in  the 
background , small  barred  window  on  the  left. 

PRINCE  JOHN 
[To  the  Mercenaries.] 

Leave  us  a moment.  I have  private  matters 
To  lay  before  this  friend  of  all  the  poor. 

You  may  begin  to  build  the  door  up  now, 

So  that  you  do  not  wall  me  in  with  him. 

[The  two  men  begin  filling  up  the  doorway  with  rude  blocks  of 
masonry.] 


232 


SHERWOOD 


So  now,  my  good  green  foot-pad,  you  are  trapped 
At  last,  trapped  in  the  practice  of  your  trade! 
Trapped,  as  you  took  your  stolen  Norman  gold 
To  what  was  it — a widow,  or  Saxon  serf 
With  eye  put  out  for  breaking  forest  laws? 

You  hold  with  them,  it  seems.  Your  dainty  soul 
Sickens  at  our  gross  penalties;  and  so 
We’ll  not  inflict  them  on  your  noble  self, 

Although  we  have  the  power.  There’s  not  a soul 
Can  ever  tell  where  Robin  Hood  is  gone. 

These  walls  will  never  echo  it. 

[He  taps  the  wall  with  his  sword.] 

And  yet  * 

There  surely  must  be  finer  ways  to  torture 
So  fine  a soul  as  yours.  Was  it  not  you 
Who  gave  me  like  a fairing  to  my  brother 
With  lofty  condescension  in  your  eyes; 

And  shall  I call  my  mercenaries  in 

And  bid  them  burn  your  eyes  out  with  hot  irons? 

Richard  is  gone — he’ll  never  hear  of  it! 

An  Earl  that  plays  the  robber  disappears, 

That’s  all.  Most  like  he  died  in  some  low  scuffle 
Out  in  the  greenwood.  I am  half  inclined 
To  call  for  red-hot  irons  after  all, 

So  that  your  sympathy  with  Saxon  churls 
May  be  more  deep,  you  understand;  and  then 
It  would  be  sweet  for  you,  alone  and  blind, 

To  know  that  you  could  never  in  this  life 
See  Marian’s  face  again.  But  no — that’s  bad, 

Bad  art  to  put  hope’s  eyes  out.  It  destroys 
Half  a man’s  fear  to  rob  him  of  his  hope. 

No;  you  shall  drink  the  dregs  of  it.  Hope  shall  die 
More  exquisite  a death.  Robin,  my  friend, 

You  understand  that,  when  I quit  your  presence, 
This  bare  blank  cell  becomes  your  living  tomb. 

Do  you  not  comprehend?  It’s  none  so  hard. 

The  doorway  will  be  built  up.  There  will  be 
No  door,  you  understand,  but  just  a wall, 

Some  six  feet  thick,  of  solid  masonry. 

Nobody  will  disturb  you,  even  to  bring 
Water  or  food.  You’ll  starve — see — like  a rat, 


SHERWOOD 


233 


Bricked  up  and  buried.  But  you'll  have  time  to  think 

Of  how  I tread  a measure  at  the  masque 

To-night,  with  Marian,  while  her  wide  eyes  wonder 

Where  Robin  is — and  old  Fitzwalter  smiles 

And  bids  his  girl  be  gracious  to  the  Prince 

For  his  land's  sake.  Ah,  ha!  you  wince  at  that! 

Will  you  not  speak  a word  before  I go? 

Speak,  damn  you! 

[He  strikes  Robin  across  the  face  with  his  glove.  Robin  remains 
silent.] 

Six  days  hence,  if  you  keep  watch 
At  yonder  window  (you'll  be  hungry  then) 

You  may  catch  sight  of  Marian  and  Prince  John 
Wandering  into  the  gardens  down  below. 

You  will  be  hungry  then;  perhaps  you'll  strive 

To  call  to  us,  or  stretch  a meagre  arm 

Through  those  strong  bars;  but  then  you  know  the  height 

Is  very  great — no  voice  can  reach  to  the  earth: 

This  is  the  topmost  cell  in  my  Dark  Tower. 

Men  look  like  ants  below  there.  I shall  say 
To  Marian,  See  that  creature  waving  there 
High  up  above  us,  level  with  the  clouds, 

Is  it  not  like  a winter-shrivelled  fly? 

And  she  will  laugh;  and  I will  pluck  her  roses. 

And  then — and  then — there  are  a hundred  ways, 

You  know,  to  touch  a woman's  blood  with  thoughts 
Beyond  its  lawful  limits.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

By  God,  you  almost  spoke  to  me,  I think. 

Touches  at  twilight,  whispers  in  the  dark, 

Sweet  sympathetic  murmurs  o'er  the  loss 
Of  her  so  thoughtless  Robin,  do  you  think 
Maid  Marian  will  be  quite  so  hard  to  win 
When  princes  come  to  woo?  There  will  be  none 
To  interrupt  us  then.  Time  will  be  mine 
To  practise  all  the  amorous  arts  of  Ovid, 

And,  at  the  last — 


ROBIN 

Will  you  not  free  my  hands? 

You  have  your  sword.  But  I would  like  to  fight  you 
Here,  with  my  naked  hands.  I want  no  more. 


234 


SHERWOOD 


PRINCE  JOHN 

Ha!  ha!  At  last  the  sullen  speaks. 

That's  all 

I wanted.  I have  struck  you  in  the  face. 

Is't  not  enough?  You  can't  repay  that  blow. 

ROBIN 

Bury  me  down  in  hell  and  I'll  repay  it 
The  day  you  die,  across  your  lying  mouth 
That  spoke  of  my  true  lady,  I will  repay  it. 

Before  the  face  of  God! 

PRINCE  JOHN 
[Laughing.] 

Meanwhile,  for  me 
Till  you  repay  that  blow,  there  is  the  mouth 
Of  Marian,  the  sweet  honey-making  mouth 
That  shall  forestall  your  phantom  blow  with  balm. 

Oh,  you'll  go  mad  too  soon  if  I delay. 

I am  glad  you  spoke.  Farewell,  the  masons  wait. 

And  I must  not  be  late  for  Marian. 

[Exit  thro ’ the  small  aperture  now  left  in  the  doorway.  It 
is  rapidly  dosed  and  sounds  of  heavy  masonry  being 
piled  against  it  are  heard.  Robin  tries  to  free  his 
hands  and  after  an  effort,  succeeds . He  hurls  him- 
self against  the  doorway,  and  finds  it  hopeless.  He 
turns  to  the  window,  peers  through  it  for  a moment , then 
suddenly  unwinds  a scarf  from  his  neck,  ties  it  to  one 
of  the  bars  and  stands  to  one  side.] 

ROBIN 

Too  high  a shot  for  most  of  my  good  bowmen! 

What's  that?  A miss? 

[He  looks  thro’  the  window.] 

Good  lad,  he'll  try  again! 
[He  stands  at  the  side  once  more  and  an  arrow  comes  thro’  the 
window.] 

Why,  that's  like  magic! 

[He  pulls  up  the  thread  attached  to  it.] 


SHERWOOD 


235 


Ah,  now  ’tis  sturdy  cord. 


Softly,  or  ’twill  break! — 
• — I’ll  make  it  fast. 


But,  how  to  break  these  bars! 

St.  Nicholas, 

There’s  someone  climbing.  He  must  have  a head 
Of  iron,  and  the  lightness  of  a cat! 

Downward  is  bad  enough,  but  up  is  more 
Than  mortal!  Who  the  devil  can  it  be? 

Thank  God,  it’s  growing  dark.  But  what  a risk! 

None  of  my  merry  men  could  e’en  attempt  it. 

I’m  very  sure  it  can’t  be  Little  John. 

What,  Shadow-of-a-Leaf! 

[Shadow-of-a-Leaf  appears  at  the  window .] 

’Fore  God,  dear  faithful  fool, 


I am  glad  to  see  you. 


SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
Softly,  gossip,  softly, 

Pull  up  the  rope  a little  until  we  break 
This  bar  away — or  some  kind  friend  may  see 
The  dangling  end  below.  Now  here’s  a toothpick, 

Six  inches  of  grey  steel,  for  you  to  work  with, 

And  here’s  another  for  me.  Pick  out  the  mortar! 

[They  work  to  loosen  the  bars.] 

Wait!  Here’s  a rose  I brought  you  in  my  cap 
And  here’s  a spray  of  fern!  Old  Nature’s  keys 
Open  all  prisons,  I’ll  throw  them  in  for  luck, 

[He  throws  them  into  the  cell  and  begins  working  feverishly  again.] 
So  that  the  princes  of  the  world  may  know 
The  forest  let  you  out.  Down  there  on  earth, 

If  any  sees  me,  they  will  only  think 

The  creepers  are  in  leaf.  Pick  out  the  mortar! 

That’s  how  the  greenwood  works.  You  know,  ’twill  thrusc 

Its  tendrils  through  these  big  grey  stones  one  day 

And  pull  them  down.  I noticed  in  the  courtyard 

The  grass  is  creeping  though  the  crevices 

Already,  and  yellow  dandelions  crouch 

In  all  the  crumbling  corners.  Pick  it  out! 

This  is  a very  righteous  work  indeed 


236 


SHERWOOD 


For  men  in  Lincoln  green;  for  what  are  we 
But  tendrils  of  old  Nature,  herald  sprays! 

We  scarce  anticipate.  Pick  the  mortar  out. 
Quick,  there’s  no  time  to  lose,  although  to-night 
We’re  in  advance  of  sun  and  moon  and  stars 
And  all  the  trickling  sands  in  Time’s  turned  glass. 

[With  a sudden  cry.] 

Richard  is  dead! 

ROBIN 

Richard  is  dead!  The  King 

Is  dead! 


SHADOW-QF-A-LEAF 

Ah,  dead!  Come,  pick  the  mortar  out, 
Out  of  the  walls  of  towers  and  shrines  and  tombs! 

For  now  Prince  John  is  King,  and  Lady  Marian 
In  peril,  gossip!  Yet  we  are  in  advance 
Of  sun  and  moon  to-night,  for  sweet  Prince  John 
Is  not  aware  yet  of  his  kinglihood, 

Or  of  his  brother’s  death. 

ROBIN 

[Pausing  a moment .] 

Why,  Shadow-of-a-Leaf, 

What  does  this  mean? 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

Come,  pick  the  mortar  out; 
You  have  no  time  to  lose.  This  very  night 
My  Lady  Marian  must  away  to  Sherwood. 

At  any  moment  the  dread  word  may  come 

That  makes  John  Kang  of  England.  Quick,  be  quick! 

ROBIN 

She  is  at  the  masque  to-night! 


SHERWOOD  237 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 


And  fetch  her  thence! 
Pull  it! 


Then  you  must  mask 
Ah,  ha,  the  bar  works  loose. 


[They  pull  at  the  bar , get  it  free , and  throw  it  into  the  cell.] 
Now,  master,  follow  me  down  the  rope. 

[Exit  Robin  thro’  the  window.] 


Scene  IV.  Night . The  garden  of  the  King’s  palace  (as 
before),  but  lighted  with  torches  for  the  masque. 
Music  swells  up  and  dies  away  continually . Maskers 
pass  to  and  fro  between  the  palace  and  the  garden. 
On  the  broad  terrace  in  front  some  of  them  are  dancing 
a galliard. 

[Prince  John  enters  and  is  met  by  Queen  Elinor,  neither  of 
them  masked.] 


.All  safe? 


ELINOR 


PRINCE  JOHN 

Ay,  buried  and  bricked  up  now,  to  think 
Alone,  in  the  black  night,  of  all  I told  him. 

Thank  God,  we  have  heard  the  last  of  Robin  Hood„ 

ELINOR 

[She  puts  on  her  mask.] 

You  are  sure? 


PRINCE  JOHN 

I saw  him  entombed  with  my  own  eyes? 
Six  feet  of  solid  masonry.  Look  there, 

There’s  the  young  knight  you’ve  lately  made  your  own.. 
Where  is  my  Lady  Marian?  Ah,  I see  her! 

With  that  old  hypocrite,  Fitzwalter. 

[They  part.  Prince  John  puts  on  his  mask  as  he  goes,\ 


238 


SHERWOOD 


A LADY 


Where  is  Prince  John? 


But  tell  me 


A MASKER 

That  burly-shouldered  man 
By  yonder  pillar,  talking  with  old  Fitzwalter, 

And  the  risked  girl,  in  green,  with  red-gold  hair, 
Is  Lady  Marian! 


THE  LADY 

Where  is  Robin  Hood? 

1 have  never  seen  him,  but  from  all  one  hears 
He  is  a wood-god  and  a young  Apollo, 

And  a more  chaste  Actseon  all  in  one. 

MASKER 

Oh,  ay,  he  never  watched  Diana  bathing, 

Or,  if  he  did,  all  Sherwood  winked  at  it. 

Who  knows?  Do  you  believe  a man  and  maid 
Can  sleep  out  in  the  woods  all  night,  as  these  w 
Have  slept  a hundred  times,  and  put  to  shame 
Our  first  poor  parents;  throw  the  apple  aside 
And  float  out  of  their  leafy  Paradise 
Like  angels? 

LADY 

No;  I fear  the  forest  boughs 
Could  tell  sad  tales.  Oh,  I imagine  it — 

Married  to  Robin,  by  a fat  hedge-priest 
Under  an  altar  of  hawthorn,  with  a choir 
Of  sparrows,  and  a spray  of  cuckoo-spit 
For  holy  water!  Oh,  the  modest  chime 
Of  blue-bells  from  a fairy  belfry,  a veil 
Of  evening  mist,  a robe  of  golden  hair; 

A blade  of  grass  for  a ring;  a band  of  thieves 
In  Lincoln  green  to  witness  the  sweet  bans; 

A glovr- worm  for  a nuptial  taper,  a bed 
Of  rose-leaves,  and  wild  thyme  and  wood-doves*  down. 


SHERWOOD 


-39 


Quick!  Draw  the  bridal  curtains — three  tall  ferns — 
Across  the  cave  mouth,  lest  a star  should  peep 
And  make  the  wild  rose  leap  into  her  face! 

Pish!  A sweet  maid!  But  where  is  Robin  Hood? 


MASKER 

1 know  not;  but  he’d  better  have  a care 
Of  Mistress  Marian.  If  I know  Prince  John 
He  has  marked  her  for  his  own. 


LADY 

What  fascinates  him. 


I cannot  see 


MASKER 

No,  you  are  right,  nor  I. 
PRINCE  JOHN 

Come,  Lady  Marian,  let  me  lead  you  out 
To  tread  a measure. 


I am  tired. 


MARIAN 

Pray,  sir,  pardon  me! 


FITZWALTER 

[Whispering  angrily  to  her.] 

Now,  Marian,  be  not  so  ungracious. 
You  both  abuse  him  and  disparage  us. 

His  courtiers  led  the  ladies  they  did  choose. 

Do  not  displease  him,  girl.  I pray  you,  go! 

Dance  out  your  galliard.  God’s  dear  holy-bread, 
Y’are  too  forgetful.  Dance,  or  by  my  troth, 

You’ll  move  my  patience.  I say  you  do  us  wrong. 

MARIAN 

I will  do  what  you  will.  Lead,  lead  your  dance. 
[Exeunt  John  and  Marian.] 


240 


SHERWOOD 


FIRST  MASKER 

I To  a lady , as  they  come  up  from  the  garden .] 

Will  you  not  let  me  see  your  face  now,  sweet? 

LADY 

You  hurt  my  lip  with  that  last  kiss  of  yours. 

Hush,  do  not  lean  your  face  so  close,  I pray  you; 

Loosen  my  fingers.  There’s  my  lord. 

FIRST  MASKER 

Where?  Where? 

Now,  if  I know  him,  I shall  know  your  name! 

LADY 

That  tall  man  with  the  damozel  in  red. 

FIRST  MASKER 

Oh,  never  fear  him.  He,  too,  wore  a mask! 

I saw  them — 

[They  pass  out  talking .] 

SECOND  MASKER 

[Looking  after  them.] 

Saw  you  those  two  turtle-doves! 

SECOND  LADY 

Yes. 

SECOND  MASKER 

Come  with  me,  I’ll  show  you  where  I caught  them 
Among  the  roses,  half  an  hour  ago. 

[They  laugh  and  exeunt  into  the  gardens.  The  music  swells  up 
and  more  dancers  appear.] 

[Enter  Robin  Hood,  still  in  his  forester’s  garb}  but  wearing  a 
mask.  He  walks  as  if  wounded  and  in  pain.  He 
sits  down  in  the  shadow  of  a pillar  watching , and 
partly  concealed  from,  the  throng.  1 


SHERWOOD 


241 


THIRD  LADY 

Remember  now  to  say  you  did  not  see  me 
Here  at  the  masque. 


THIRD  MASKER 
Or  shall  I say  that  I 

Was  out  in  Palestine? 

[They  pass.  Enter  little  Arthur  Plantagenet.  He  comes 
up  to  Robin  Hood.) 

ARTHUR 

Are  you  not  Robin  Hood? 

ROBIN 

Hush,  Arthur.  Don't  you  see  I wear  a mask 
Like  all  the  rest  to-night? 

ARTHUR 

Why  do  they  wear 

Masks? 

ROBIN 

They  must  always  wear  some  sort  of  mask 
At  court.  Sometimes  they  wear  them  all  their  lives. 

ARTHUR 

You  are  jesting,  Robin.  Now  I wanted  you 
To  tell  me  tales  of  Sherwood.  Tell  me  how 
You  saved  Will  Scarlet. 

ROBIN 

Why,  I've  told  you  that 

A score  of  times. 

ARTHUR 

I know,  I want  to  hear  it 
Again.  Well,  tell  me  of  that  afternoon 
When  Lion-Heart  came  home  from  the  Crusade. 

I have  often  thought  of  that.  It  must  have  been 
Splendid!  You  weren't  expecting  it  at  all? 

16 


242 


SHERWOOD 


ROBIN 

No,  not  at  all;  but,  Arthur,  tell  me  first 
Have  you  seen  Lady  Marian? 

ARTHUR 

Yes,  I saw  her 

Treading  a measure  with  my  Uncle  John! 

ROBIN 

Stand  where  you  are  and  watch;  and,  if  you  see  her, 
Beckon  her.  Then  Fll  tell  you  how  the  King 
Came  home  from  the  Crusade. 

ARTHUR 

First,  let  me  tell  you 

Just  how  I think  it  was.  It  must  have  been 
Like  a great  picture.  All  your  outlaws  there 
Sitting  aroiwad  your  throne  of  turf,  and  you 
Judging  the  rich  and  poor.  That's  how  it  was 
Last  night,  I dreamed  of  it;  and  you  were  taking 
The  baron's  gold  and  giving  it  to  the  halt 
And  blind;  and  then  there  was  a great  big  light 
Between  the  trees,  as  if  a star  had  come 
Down  to  the  earth  and  caught  among  the  boughs, 
With  beams  like  big  soft  swords  amongst  the  ferns 
And  leaves,  and  through  the  light  a mighty  steed 
Stepped,  and  the  King  came  home  from  the  Crusade. 
Was  it  like  that?  Was  there  a shining  light? 

ROBIN 

I think  there  must  have  been,  a blinding  light. 
ARTHUR 

Filling  an  arch  of  leaves? 

ROBIN 


Yes! 


SHERWOOD 


243 


ARTHUR 

That  was  it! 

That's  how  the  King  came  home  from  the  Crusade. 

ROBIN 

But  there — you've  told  the  story! 

ARTHUR 

Ah,  not  all! 

ROBIN 

No,  not  quite  all.  What's  that? 

[The  music  suddenly  stops . The  maskers  crowd  together  whisper * 
ing  excitedly .] 

ARTHUR 

Why  have  they  stopped 

The  music?  Ah,  there's  Hubert.  Shall  I ask  him? 

ROBIN 

Yes,  quickly,  and  come  back! 

[Arthur  runs  up  to  a masker.  Several  go  by  hurriedly.] 

FIRST  MASKER 

The  King  is  dead! 

SECOND  MASKER 
Where  did  it  happen?  France? 

FIRST  MASKER 

I know  not,  sir! 


[Arthur  returns .] 
ARTHUR 

Robin,  they  say  the  King  is  dead!  So  John 
Is  king  now,  is  he  not? 


244 


SHERWOOD 


ROBIN 

Ay,  John  is  king! 

Now,  tell  me  quickly,  use  your  eyes,  my  boy, 
Where's  Lady  Marian? 


Alone! 


ARTHUR 

Ah,  there  she  is  at  last, 


ROBIN 

Go  to  her  quickly,  and  bring  her  hither. 

[Arthur  runs  off  and  returns  with  Marian.] 


MARIAN 

Robin,  thank  God,  you  have  returned.  I feared — 
ROBIN 

No  more,  dear  heart,  you  must  away  to  Sherwood! 
Shadow-of-a-Leaf  is  waiting  by  the  orchard 
With  your  white  palfrey.  Away,  or  the  new  king 
Will  hunt  us  down.  I'll  try  to  gain  you  time. 

Go — quickly! 


MARIAN 

Robin,  your  face  is  white,  you  are  wounded! 

What's  this — there's  blood  upon  your  doublet! 

Robin! 

ROBIN 

Nothing!  Go,  quickly! 

MARIAN 

Robin,  I cannot  leave  you. 

ROBIN 

Go,  Marian.  If  you  ever  loved  me,  go. 


You'll  follow? 


MARIAN 


SHERWOOD 


245 


ROBIN 

Oh,  with  my  last  breath  I wiH, 

God  helping  me;  but  I must  gain  you  time! 

Quickly!  Here  comes  the  King! 

MARIAN 

Oh,  follow  soon! 

[Exit.] 

[Robin  sits  down  again , steadying  himself  against  the  'pillar. 
John  appears  at  the  doors  of  the  palace , above  the  terrace , a 
scroll  in  his  hand.] 


JOHN 

My  friends,  the  King  is  dead! 

MASKERS 

[Taking  of  their  masks } with  a cry.] 

Long  live  King  John! 

JOHN 

[Coming  down  amongst  them.] 

Our  masque  is  ended  by  this  grievous  news; 

But  where’s  my  Lady  Marian?  I had  some  word 
To  speak  with  her!  Not  here!  Why — 

ROBIN 

[Still  masked , rises  and  confronts  the  King , who  stares  at  him  and 
shrinks  hack  a little.] 

All  the  masks 

Are  ofifr  sire!  No,  perhaps  they  wear  them  still. 

JOHN 

Who  is  this? 

ROBIN 

One  that  was  dead  and  lives.  You  say 
Your  brother,  the  great  King,  is  dead.  Oh,  sire, 

If  that  be  so,  you’ll  hear  a dead  man  speak, 


246 


SHERWOOD 


For  your  dead  brother’s  sake.  You  say  the  Eng 
Is  dead;  but  you  are  king.  So  the  Eng  lives! 

You  are  King  of  England  now  from  sea  to  sea, 

Is  it  not  so?  Shout,  maskers,  once  again, 

Long  live  the  King! 

MASKERS 
Long  live  the  Eng! 

ROBIN 

You  see 

What  power  is  yours!  Your  smile  is  life,  your  frown 
Death.  At  a word  from  you  the  solid  earth 
Would  shake  with  tramp  of  armies.  You  can  call 
Thousands  to  throw  away  their  lives  like  straws 
Upon  your  side,  if  any  foreign  king 
Dare  to  affront  you. 

[He  draws  nearer  to  John , who  still  shrinks  a little,  as  if  in  fear.} 

Richard,  you  say,  is  dead, 
And  yet,  0 King,  I say  that  the  great  Eng 
Lives ! 

\He  strikes  John  across  the  face.  John  cowers  and  staggers 
hack . The  Maskers  draw  their  sioords , the  women 
scream  and  rush  together.  Robin  turns,  sword  in  hand , 
to  confront  the  Maskers.] 

Back,  fools;  for  I say  that  the  great  King 
Lives.  Do  not  doubt  it.  Y e have  dreamed  him  dead 
How  often.  Hark,  God  in  heaven,  ye  know  that  voice. 

[A  voice  is  heard  draining  nearer  thro 9 the  distant  darkness  of  the 
garden , singing.  All  listen.  John’s  face  whitens .] 

[Song.] 

Knight,  on  the  narrow  way, 

Where  wouldst  thou  ride? 

“Onward,”  I heard  him  say, 

“Love,  to  thy  side.” 

ROBIN 

’Tis  Blondel!  Still  vaunt-courier  to  the  King, 

As  when  he  burst  the  bonds  of  Austria!  Listen! 


SHERWOOD 


247 


[Song  nearer .] 

“Nay,”  sang  a bird  above, 

“Stay,  for  I see 
Death,  in  the  mask  of  love, 

Waiting  for  thee.” 

MASKERS 

[Resuming  their  masks  and  muttering  to  one  another .] 
Can  bhe  King  live?  Is  this  John's  treachery?  Look, 

He  is  crushed  with  fear! 


ROBIN 

Listen!  I’ll  go  to  meet  him, 

[Exit  into  the  garden .] 

MASKERS 

It  was  the  song  of  Blondel!  The  same  song 
He  made  with  Richard,  long  since! — 

Blondel's  voice! 

Just  as  we  heard  it  on  that  summer's  night 
When  Lion-Heart  came  home  from  the  Crusade. 

[The  Song  still  drawing  nearer.] 

“Death!  WJiat  is  Death?”  he  cried, 

“I  must  ride  on, 

On  to  my  true  love’s  side, 

Up  to  her  throne!” 

[Enter  Blondel,  from  the  garden . He  stands , startled  by  the 
scene  before  him.] 

MASKERS 

Blondel!  Where  is  the  King?  Where  is  the  King? 
BLONDEL 

Did  ye  not  know? — -Richard,  the  King,  is  dead! 


Dead! 


MASKERS 


248 


SHERWOOD 


JOHN 

Dead!  And  ye  let  the  living  dog  escape 
That  dared  snarl  at  our  sovereignty.  I know  him, 
Risen  from  the  dead  or  not.  I know  ?twas  he, 
’Twas  Robin  Hood!  After  him;  hunt  Mm  down! 
Let  him  not  live  to  greet  another  sun. 

After  him! 


MASKERS 

[Drawing  their  swords  and  plunging  into  the  darkness.] 
After  him;  hunt  the  villain  down! 

[Curtain.] 


ACT  Y 

Scene  I.  Morning . Sherwood  Forest  (as  before). 

Little  John  and  some  of  the  Outlaws  are  gathered 
together  talking.  Occasionally  they  look  anxiously 
toward  the  ccwe  and  at  the  approaches  through  the  wood. 
Enter  two  Foresters,  running  and  breathless. 

FIRST  FORESTER 

The  King’s  men!  They  are  scouring  thro’  the  wood, 

Two  troops  of  them,  five  hundred  men  in  each 
And  more  are  following. 

SECOND  FORESTER 
We  must  away  from  here 

And  quickly. 

LITTLE  JOHN 
Where  did  you  sight  them? 

SECOND  FORESTER 
From  the  old  elm, 

Our  watch-tower.  They  were  not  five  miles  away! 


SHERWOOD 


249 


FIRST  FORESTER 

Five,  about  five.  We  saw  the  sunlight  flash 
Along,  at  least  five  hundred  men  at  arms; 

And,  to  the  north,  along  another  line, 

Bigger,  I think;  but  not  so  near. 

SECOND  FORESTER 

Where's  Robin? 

We  must  away  at  once! 

FIRST  FORESTER 

No  time  to  lose! 

LITTLE  JOHN 

His  wound  is  bitter — I know  not  if  we  dare 
Move  him! 


FIRST  FORESTER 
His  wound? 


LITTLE  JOHN 

Ay,  some  damned  arrow  pierced  him 
Wien  he  escaped  last  night  from  the  Dark  Tower. 

He  never  spoke  of  it  when  first  he  reached  us; 

And,  suddenly,  he  swooned.  He  is  asleep 
Now.  He  must  not  be  wakened.  They  will  take 
Some  time  yet  ere  they  thread  our  forest-maze. 

FIRST'  FORESTER 

Not  long,  by  God,  not  long.  They  are  moving  fast. 

[Marian  appears  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave . AU  turn  to  look  at 
her , expectantly . She  seems  in  distress.] 

MARIAN 

He  is  tossing  to  and  fro.  I think  his  wound 
Has  taken  fever!  What  can  we  do? 


250 


SHERWOOD 


FRIAR  TUCK 

Fve’sent 

A messenger  to  Kirklee  Priory, 

Where  my  old  friend  the  Prioress  hath  store 
Of  balms  and  simples,  and  hath  often  helped 
A wounded  forester.  Could  we  take  him  there, 

Her  skill  would  quickly  heal  him. 

LITTLE  JOHN 

The  time  is  pressing! 

FRIAR  TUCK 
The  lad  will  not  be  long! 

[Robin  appears  tottering  and  white  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave . 

MARIAN 
[Running  to  him.] 

O Robin,  Robin, 

You  must  not  rise!  Your  wound! 

ROBIN 

[He  speaks  feverishly .] 

Where  can  I rest 

Better  than  on  my  greenwood  throne  of  turf? 

Friar,  I heard  them  say  they  had  some  prisoners. 

Bring  them  before  me. 


FRIAR  TUCK 

Master,  you  are  fevered, 

And  they  can  wait. 

ROBIN 

Yes,  yes;  but  there  are  some 
That  cannot  wait,  that  die  for  want  of  food, 

And  then — the  Norman  gold  will  come  too  late, 

Too  late. 


LITTLE  JOHN 
O master,  you  must  rest. 
[Going  up  to  him.] 


SHERWOOD 


251 


MARIAN 

Oh,  help  me, 

Help  me  with  him.  Help  me  to  lead  him  back. 

ROBIN 

No!  No!  You  must  not  touch  me!  I will  rest 
When  I have  seen  the  prisoners,  not  before. 

LITTLE  JOHN 

He  means  it,  mistress,  better  humour  him 
Or  he  will  break  his  wound  afresh. 

MARIAN 

0 Robin, 

Give  me  your  word  that  you’ll  go  back  and  rest, 

When  you  have  seen  them. 


ROBIN 

Yes,  I will  try,  I will  try! 

But  oh,  the  sunlight!  Where  better,  sweet,  than  this? 

[She  leads  him  to  the  throne  of  turf  and  he  sits  down  upon  it,  with 
Marian  at  his  side.} 

The  Friar  is  right.  This  life  is  wine,  red  wine, 

Under  the  greenwood  boughs!  Oh,  still  to  keep  it, 

One  little  glen  of  justice  in  the  midst 
Of  multitudinous  wrong.  Who  knows?  We  yet 
May  leaven  the  whole  world. 

[Enter  the  Outlaws,  with  several  prisoners , among  them,  a 
Knight,  an  Abbot,  and  a Forester.] 

These  are  the  prisoners? 

You  had  some  victims  of  the  forest  laws 
That  came  to  you  for  help.  Bring  them  in,  too, 

And  set  them  over  against  these  lords  of  the  earth ! 

[Some  ragged  women  and  children  appear.  Several  serfs  with 
iron  collars  round  their  necks  and  their  eyes  put  out , 
are  led  gently  in.] 

Is  that  our  Lincoln  green  among  the  prisoners? 

There?  One  of  my  own  band? 


252 


SHERWOOD 


LITTLE  JOHN 

Ay,  more’s  the  pity! 

We  took  him  out  of  pity,  and  he  has  wronged 
Our  honour,  sir;  he  has  wronged  a helpless  woman 
Entrusted  to  his  guidance  thro’  the  forest. 

ROBIN 

Ever  the  same,  the  danger  comes  from  those 
We  fight  for,  those  below,  not  those  above! 

Which  of  you  will  betray  me  to  the  King? 

THE  FORESTER 
Do  you  ask  me,  sir? 


ROBIN 

Judas  answered  first. 

With  “ Master,  is  it  I?”  Hang  not  thy  head! 

What  say’st  thou  to  this  charge? 

THE  FORESTER 

Why,  Friar  Tuck 

Can  answer  for  me.  Do  you  think  he  cares 
Less  for  a woman’s  lips  than  I? 

FRIAR  TUCK 

Cares  less, 

Thou  rotten  radish?  Nay,  but  a vast  deal  more! 
God’s  three  best  gifts  to  man, — woman  and  song 
And  wine,  what  dost  thou  know  of  all  their  joy? 

Thou  lean  pick-purse  of  kisses? 

ROBIN 

Take  him  out, 

Friar,  and  let  him  pack  his  goods  and  go, 

Whither  he  will.  I trust  the  knave  to  thee 
And  thy  good  quarter-staff,  for  some  five  minutes 
Before  he  says  “Farewell.” 


SHERWOOD 


253 


FRIAR 

Bring  him  sefong, 

Give  him  a quarter-staff,  I’ll  thrash  him  roundly. 

[He  goes  out.  Two  of  the  Foresters  follow  with  the  'prisoner . 
Others  bring  the  Abbot  before  Robin.] 

ROBIN 

Ah!  Ha!  I know  him,  the  godly  usurer 
Of  York! 


LITTLE  JOHN 
We  saw  a woman  beg  for  alms, 

One  of  the  sufferers  by  the  rule  which  gave 
This  portly  Norman  his  fat  priory 
And  his  abundant  lands.  We  heard  him  say 
That  he  was  helpless,  had  not  one  poor  coin 
To  give  her,  not  a scrap  of  bread!  He  wears 
Purple  beneath  his  cloak:  his  fine  sleek  palfrey 
Flaunted  an  Emperor’s  trappings! 

ABBOT 

Man,  the  Church 

Must  keep  her  dignity! 


ROBIN 

[Pointing  to  the  poor  woman , etc.] 

Ay,  look  at  it! 

There  is  your  dignity!  And  you  must  wear 
Silk  next  your  skin  to  show  it.  But  there  was  one 
You  call  your  Master,  and  He  had  not  where 
To  lay  His  head,  save  one  of  these  same  trees ! 

ABBOT 

Do  you  blaspheme!  I pray  you,  let  me  go! 

There  are  grave  matters  waiting.  I am  poor! 

ROBIN 

Look  in  his  purse  and  see. 


254 


SHERWOOD 


ABBOT 
[Hurriedly .] 

I have  five  marks 
In  all  the  world,  no  more.  141  give  them  to  you! 

ROBIN 

Look  in  his  purse  and  see. 

[They  pour  a heap  of  gold  out  of  his  purse. \ 

ROBIN 

Five  marks,  indeed! 

Here's,  at  the  least,  a hundred  marks  in  gold! 

ABBOT 

That  is  my  fees,  my  fees;  you  must  not  take  them! 

ROBIN 

The  ancient  miracle! — five  loaves,  two  small  fishes; 
And  then — of  what  remained — they  gathered  up 
Twelve  basketsful! 


ABBOT 

Oh,  you  blaspheming  villains! 
ROBIN 

Abbot,  I chance  to  know  how  this  was  wrought, 

This  miracle;  wrought  with  the  blood,  anguish  and  sweat 
Of  toiling  peasants,  while  the  cobwebs  clustered 
Around  your  lordly  cellars  of  red  wine. 

Give  him  his  five  and  let  him  go. 

ABBOT 
[Going  out.} 

The  King 

Shall  hear  of  this!  The  King  will  hunt  you  down! 

ROBIN 

And  now  — the  next! 


SHERWOOD 


255 


SCARLET 


Your  wound  will — 


Beseech  you,  sir,  to  rest. 


ROBIN 

No!  The  next,  show  me  the  next! 
SCARLET 

This  Norman  baron — 

ROBIN 

What,  another  friend! 
Another  master  of  broad  territories. 

How  many  homes  were  burned  to  make  you  lord 
Of  half  a shire?  What  hath  he  in  his  purse? 

SCARLET 

Gold  and  to  spare! 

BARON 

To  keep  up  mine  estate 

I need  much  more. 

ROBIN 

[Pointing  to  the  poor.] 

Ay,  you  need  these!  these!  these! 

BARON 
[Protesting.  ] 

I am  not  rich. 


ROBIN 

Look  in  his  purse  and  see. 
BARON 

You  dogs,  the  King  shall  hear  of  it! 


256 


SHERWOOD 


ROBIN 

[Murmuring  as  if  to  himself.] 

Five  loaves! 

And  yet,  of  what  remained,  they  gathered  up 
Twelve  basketsful.  The  bread  of  human  kindness 
Goes  far!  Oh,  I begin  to  see  new  meanings 
In  that  old  miracle!  How  much?  How  much? 

SCARLET 

Five  hundred  marks  in  gold! 

ROBIN 

[Half  rising  and  speaking  with  a sudden  passion.] 

His  churls  are  starving, 
Starving!  Their  little  children  cry  for  bread! 

One  of  those  jewels  on  his  baldric  there 
Would  feed  them  all  in  plenty  all  their  lives! 

Five  loaves — and  yet — and  yet — of  wdiat  remained, 
The  fragments,  mark  you,  twelve  great  basketsful! 

BARON 

I am  in  a madman's  power!  The  man  is  mad! 
ROBIN 

Take  all  he  has,  all  you  can  get.  To-night, 

When  all  is  dark  (we  must  have  darkness,  mind, 

For  deeds  like  this)  blind  creatures  will  creep  out 
With  groping  hands  and  gaping  mouths,  lean  arms, 
And  shrivelled  bodies,  branded,  fettered,  lame, 
Distorted,  horrible;  and  they  will  weep 
Great  tears  like  gouts  of  blood  upon  our  feet, 

And  we  shall  succour  them  and  make  them  think 
(That’s  if  you  have  not  mangled  their  poor  souls 
As  well,  or  burned  their  children  with  their  homes). 
We’ll  try  to  make  them  think  that  some  few  roods 
Of  earth  are  not  so  bitter  as  hell  might  be. 

Are  you  not  glad  to  think  of  this?  Nay — go — 

Or  else  your  face  will  haunt  me  when  I die! 

Take  him  quickly  away.  The  next!  The  next! 
OGod! 

[Flings  up  his  arms  and  falls  fainting.] 


SHERWOOD 


257 


MARIAN 

[Bending  over  him.] 

0 Robin!  Robin!  Help  him  quickly. 

The  wound!  The  wound! 

[They  gather  round  Robin.  The  Outlaws  come  hack  with  the 
captive  Forester,  his  pack  upon  his  back.] 

FRIAR  TUCK 
[To  the  Forester.] 

Now,  get  you  gone  and  quickly! 
What,  what  hath  happened? 

[Friar  Tuck  and  the  Outlaws  join  the  throng  round  Robin. 

The  Forester  shakes  his  fist  at  them  and  goes  across  the 
glade  muttering . The  Messenger  from  Kirklee  Priory 
comes  out  of  the  forest  at  the  same  moment  and  speaks  to 
him , not  knowing  of  his  dismissal.] 

MESSENGER 

All’s  well!  Robin  can  come 
To  Kirklee.  Our  old  friend  the  Prioress 
Is  there,  and  faithful!  They’ve  all  balms  and  simples 
To  heal  a wound. 


FORESTER 
[Staring  at  him.] 

To  Kirklee? 

MESSENGER 

Yes,  at  sunset, 

We’ll  take  him  to  the  borders  of  the  wood 
All  will  be  safe. 

Where  he  can  steal  in  easily,  alone. 

FORESTER 

The  King’s  men  are  at  hand! 
MESSENGER 

Oh,  but  if  we  can  leave  him  there,  all’s  safe; 

We’ll  dodge  the  King’s  men. 

17 


25S 


SHERWOOD 


FORESTER 

When  is  he  to  go? 

MESSENGER 

Almost  at  once;  but  he  must  not  steal  in 
Till  sundown,  when  the  nuns  are  all  in  chapel. 

How  now?  What’s  this?  What’s  this? 

He  goes  across  to  the  throng  round  Robin.] 


Alone,  to  Kirklee! 


FORESTER 
[ Looking  after  him.] 

[Exit] 


Scene  II.  A room  in  Kirklee  Priory.  A window  on  the  right 
overlooks  a cloister  leading  up  to  the  chapel  door.  The 
forest  is  seen  in  the  distance , the  sun  beginning  to 
set  behind  it.  The  Prioress  and  a Novice  are 
sitting  in  a window-seat  engaged  in  broidery  work. 

NOVICE 

He  must  be  a good  man — this  Robin  Hood! 

I long  to  see  him.  Father  used  to  say 
England  had  known  none  like  him  since  the  days 
Of  Hereward  the  Wake. 


PRIORESS 

He  will  be  here 

By  vespers.  You  shall  let  him  in.  Who’s  that? 

Can  that  be  he?  It  is  not  sundown  yet. 

See  who  is  there. 

[Exit  Novice.  She  returns  excitedly] 
NOVICE 

A lady  asks  to  see  you! 
She  is  robed  like  any  nun  and  yet  she  spoke 
Like  a great  lady — one  that  is  used  to  rule 


SHERWOOD 


259 


More  than  obey;  and  on  her  breast  I saw 
A ruby  smouldering  like  a secret  fire 
Beneath  her  cloak.  She  bade  me  say  she  came 
On  Robin  Hood's  behest. 

PRIORESS 

What?  Bring  her  in 

Quickly. 

[Exit  Novice  and  returns  with  Queen  Elinor  in  a nunfs  garb. 

At  the  sign  from  the  Prioress  the  Novice  retires.] 

ELINOR 

Madam,  I come  to  beg  a favour. 

I am  a friend  of  Robin  Hood.  I have  heard — 

One  of  his  Foresters,  this  very  noon 

Brought  me  the  news — that  he  is  sorely  wounded ; 

And  purposes  to  seek  your  kindly  help 
At  Kirklee  Priory. 


PRIORESS 

Oh,  then  indeed, 

You  must  be  a great  friend,  for  this  was  kept 
Most  secret  from  all  others. 

ELINOR 

A great  friend! 

He  was  my  page  some  fifteen  years  ago, 

And  all  his  life  I have  watched  over  him 
As  if  he  were  my  son!  I have  come  to  beg 
A favour — let  me  see  him  when  he  comes. 

My  husband  was  a soldier,  and  I am  skilled 
In  wounds.  In  Palestine  I saved  his  life 
When  every  leech  despaired  of  it,  a wound 
Caused  by  a poisoned  arrow. 

PRIORESS 

You  shall  see  him. 

I have  some  skill  myself  in  balms  and  simples, 

But,  in  these  deadlier  matters  I would  fain 
Trust  to  your  wider  knowledge. 


260 


SHERWOOD 


ELINOR 

Let  me  see  him  alone 

Alone,  you  understand.  His  mind  is  fevered. 

I have  an  influence  over  him.  Do  not  say 
That  I am  here,  or  aught  that  will  excite  him. 

Better  say  nothing — lead  him  gently  in, 

And  leave  him.  In  my  hands  he  is  like  a child. 

PRIORESS 

It  shall  be  done.  I see  you  are  subtly  versed 
In  the  poor  workings  of  our  mortal  minds. 

ELINOR 

I learnt  much  from  a wise  old  Eastern  leech 
When  I was  out  in  Palestine. 

PRIORESS 

I have  heard 

They  have  great  powers  and  magic  remedies; 

They  can  restore  youth  to  the  withered  frame. 

ELINOR 

There  is  only  one  thing  that  they  cannot  do. 

PRIORESS 

And  what? 

ELINOR 

They  cannot  raise  the  dead. 

PRIORESS 

Ah,  no; 

I am  most  glad  to  hear  you  say  it,  most  glad 
To  know  we  think  alike.  That  is  most  true — 

Yes — yes — most  true;  for  God  alone,  dear  friend, 

Can  raise  the  dead! 

[A  bell  begins  tolling  slowly.] 

The  bell  for  even-song! 

You  have  not  long  to  wait. 


SHERWOOD 


261 


[Shadowy  figures  of  nuns  pass  the  windows  and  enter  the  chapel . 
The  sunset  deepens.] 

Will  you  not  pray 

With  me? 

[The  Prioress  and  Queen  Elinor  kneel  down  together  before  a 
little  shrine.  Enter  the  Novice.] 

NOVICE 

There  is  a forester  at  the  door. 

Mother,  I think  ’tis  he! 

PRIORESS 

[Rising.] 

Admit  him,  then. 

ELINOR 

Leave  me : I will  keep  praying  till  he  comes. 

PRIORESS 

You  are  trembling!  You  are  not  afraid? 

ELINOR 

[With  eyes  dosed  as  in  strenuous  devotion.] 

No;  no; 

Leave  me,  I am  but  praying! 

[A  chant  swells  up  in  the  chapel.  Exit  Prioress.  Elinor  con- 
tinues muttering  as  in  prayer.  Enter  Robin  Hood, 
steadying  himself  on  his  bowy  weak  and  white.  She 
rises  and  passes  between  him  and  the  door  to  confront 
him.] 


ELINOR 

Ah,  Robin,  you  have  come  to  me  at  last 
For  healing.  Pretty  Marian  cannot  help  you 
With  all  her  kisses. 


262 


SHERWOOD 


ROBIN  HOOD 
[Staring  at  her  wildly .] 

You!  I did  not  know 

That  you  were  here.  I did  not  ask  your  help. 

I must  go — Marian! 

[He  tries  to  reach  the  door , but  reels  in  a half  faint  on  the  way . 

Elinor  supports  him  as  he  pauses , panting  for  breath.) 

ELINOR 

Robin,  your  heart  is  hard. 

Both  to  yourself  and  me.  You  cannot  go, 

Rejecting  the  small  help  which  I can  give 
As  if  I were  a leper.  Ah,  come  back. 

Are  you  so  unforgiving?  God  forgives! 

Did  you  not  see  me  praying  for  your  sake? 

Think,  if  you  think  not  of  yourself,  oh,  think 
Of  Marian — can  you  leave  her  clinging  arms 
Yet,  for  the  cold  grave,  Robin?  I have  risked 
Much,  life  itself,  to  bring  you  help  this  day! 

I have  some  skill  in  wounds. 

[She  holds  him  closer  and  brings  her  face  near  to  his  own , look- 
ing into  his  eyes.] 

Ah,  do  you  know 

How  slowly,  how  insidiously  this  death 
Creeps,  coil  by  tightening  coil,  around  a man. 

When  he  is  weak  as  you  are?  Do  you  know 
How  the  last  subtle  coil  slips  round  your  throat 
And  the  flat  snake-like  head  lifts  up  and  peers 
With  cruel  eyes  of  cold,  keen  inquisition, 

Rivetting  your  own,  until  the  blunt  mouth  sucks 
Your  breath  out  with  one  long,  slow,  poisonous  kiss? 

ROBIN  HOOD 

O God,  that  nightmare!  Leave  me!  Let  me  go! 

ELINOR 

You  stare  at  me  as  if  you  saw  that  snake. 

Ha!  Ha!  Your  nerves  are  shaken;  you  are  so  weak! 


SHERWOOD 


263 


You  cannot  go!  What!  Fainting?  Ah,  rest  here 
Upon  this  couch. 

[She  half  supports , half  thrusts  him  back  to  a couch , in  an  alcove 
out  of  sight  and  draws  a curtain.  There  is  a knock  at 
the  door,] 

ELINOR 
Who's  there? 

PRIORESS 

Madam,  I came 

To  know  if  I could  help  in  anything. 

ELINOR 

Nothing!  His  blood  runs  languidly.  It  needs 
The  pricking  of  a vein  to  make  the  heart 
Beat,  and  the  sluggish  rivers  flow.  I have  brought 
A lance  for  it.  Ill  let  a little  blood. 

Not  over-much;  enough,  enough  to  set 
The  pulses  throbbing. 

PRIORESS 

Maid  Marian  came  with  him. 

She  waits  without  and  asks — 

ELINOR 

Let  her  not  come 

Near  him  til]  all  is  done.  Let  her  not  know 
Anything,  or  the  old  fever  will  awake. 

Ill  lance  his  arm  now! 

[The  Prioress  closes  the  door.  Elinor  goes  into  the  alcove. 

The  chant  from  the  chapel  swells  up  again.  Queen 
Elinor  comes  out  of  the  alcove , white  and  trembling . 
She  speaks  in  a low  whisper  as  she  looks  back.] 

Now,  trickle  down,  sweet  blood.  Grow  white,  fond  lips 
That  have  kissed  Marian — yet,  she  shall  not  boast 
You  kissed  her  last;  for  I will  have  you  wake 
To  the  fierce  memory  of  this  kiss  in  heaven 
Or  burn  with  it  in  hell; 


264 


SHERWOOD 


kneels  down  as  if  to  kiss  the  face  of  Robin,  within . The 
chant  from  the  chapel  swells  up  more  loudly.  The  door 
slowly  opens.  Marian  steals  in.  Elinor  rises  and  con- 
fronts her.] 


ELINOR 

[Laying  a hand  upon  Robin^  bow  beside  her.] 

Hush!  Do  not  wake  him! 

MARIAN 
[In  a low  voice.] 

What  have  you  done  with  him? 
ELINOR 

[As  Marian  advances  towards  the  couch.] 

He  is  asleep. 

Hush!  Not  a step  further!  Stay  where  you  are!  His  life 
Hangs  on  a thread. 

MARIAN 

Why  do  you  stare  upon  me? 

What  have  you  done?  What’s  this  that  trickles  down — 
[Stoops  to  the  floor  and  leaps  back  with  a scream.] 

It  is  blood.  You  have  killed  him! 

ELINOR 

[Seizes  the  bow  and  shoots . Marian  falls.] 

Follow  him— down  to  hell. 

King  John  will  find  you  there. 

[Exit.  The  scene  grows  dark.] 

MARIAN 

[Lifts  her  head  with  a groan.] 

I am  dying,  Robin! 

O God,  I cannot  wake  him!  Robin!  Robin! 

Give  me  one  word  to  take  into  the  dark! 

He  will  not  wake!  He  will  not  wake!  0 God, 

Help  him! 


SHERWOOD 


265 


[She  falls  back  unconscious.  Shadow-of-a-Leaf,  a green  spray 
in  his  hand , opens  the  casement  and  stands  for  a moment 
in  the  window  against  the  last  glow  of  sunset,  then 
enters  and  runs  to  the  side  of  Robin.] 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

[Hurriedly.] 

Awake,  awake,  Robin,  awake! 

The  forest  waits  to  help  you!  All  the  leaves 
Are  listening  for  your  bugle.  Ah,  wdiere  is  it? 

Let  but  one  echo  sound  and  the  wild  flowers 

Will  break  thro’  these  grey  walls  and  the  green  sprays 

Drag  down  these  deadly  towers.  Wake,  Robin,  wake, 

And  let  the  forest  drown  the  priest’s  grey  song 
With  happy  murmurs.  Robin,  the  gates  are  open 
For  you  and  Marian!  All  I had  to  give 
I have  given  to  thrust  them  open,  the  dear  gates 
Of  fairyland  which  I shall  never  pass 
Again.  I can  no  more,  I am  but  a shadow, 

Dying  as  mortals  die!  It  is  not  I 

That  calls,  not  I,  but  Marian,  Hear  her  voice! 

Robin,  awake! 

0,  master  mine,  farewell! 

[Exit  lingeringly  through  the  casement.] 

ROBIN 

[Robin  is  dimly  seen  in  the  mouth  of  the  alcove.  He  stretches  out 
his  hands  blindly  in  the  dark.] 

Marian!  Why  do  you  call  to  me  in  dreams? 

Why  do  you  call  me?  I must  go.  What’s  this? 

Help  me,  kind  God,  for  I must  say  one  word, 

Only  one  word — good-bye — to  Marian, 

To  Marian — Ah,  too  weak,  too  weak! 

[He  sees  the  dark  body  of  Marian  and  utters  a cry,  falling  on  his 
knees  beside  her.] 

O God, 

Marian!  Marian! 

My  bugle!  Ah,  my  bugle! 


266 


SHERWOOD 


[He  rises  to  his  feet  and , drowning  the  distant  organ-music , he 
blows  a resounding  forest-call . It  is  answered  by  several 
in  the  forest.  He  falls  on  his  knees  by  Marian  and 
takes  her  in  his  arms.] 

0 Marian,  Marian,  who  hath  used  thee  so? 

MARIAN 

Robin,  it  is  my  death- wound.  Ah,  come  close, 

ROBIN 

Marian,  Marian,  what  have  they  done  to  thee? 

[The  Outlaws  are  heard  thundering  at  the  gates  with  cries.] 

OUTLAWS 

Robin!  Robin!  Robin!  Break  down  the  doors. 

[The  terrified  nuns  stream  'past  the  window , out  of  the  chapeL 
The  Outlaws  rush  into  the  room . The  scene  still 
darkens.] 


SCARLET 

Robin  and  Marian! 

LITTLE  JOHN 

Christ,  what  devil's  hand 

Hath  played  the  butcher  here?  Quick,  hunt  them  down, 
They  passed  out  yonder.  Let  them  not  outlive 
Our  murdered  king  and  queen. 

REYNOLD  GREENLEAF 

0 Robin,  Robin, 

Who  shot  this  bitter  shaft  into  her  breast? 

[Several  stoop  and  kneel  by  the  two  lovers. J 

ROBIN  HOOD 

Speak  to  me,  Marian,  speak  to  me,  only  speak! 

Just  one  small  word,  one  little  loving  word 

Like  those— do  you  remember? — you  have ‘breathed 

So  many  a time  and  often,  against  my  cheek, 


SHERWOOD 


267 


Under  the  boughs  of  Sherwood,  in  the  dark 
At  night,  with  nothing  but  the  boughs  and  stars 
Between  us  and  the  dear  God  up  in  heaven! 

O God,  why  does  a man’s  heart  take  so  long 
To  break?  It  would  break  sooner  if  you  spoke 
A word  to  me,  a word,  one  small  kind  word. 

MARIAN 

Sweetheart! 

ROBIN 

Sweetheart!  You  have  broken  it,  broken  it!  Oh,  kind, 
Kind  heart  of  Marian! 


MARIAN 

Robin,  come  soon! 
[Dies.] 


ROBIN 

Soon,  sweetheart!  Oh,  her  sweet  brave  soul  is  gone! 
Marian,  I follow  quickly! 


Shall  burn  for  this! 


SCARLET 

God,  Kirklee 


LITTLE  JOHN 

Kirklee  shall  burn  for  this! 

0 master,  master,  you  shall  be  avenged! 

ROBIN 

No;  let  me  stand  upright!  Your  hand,  good  Scarlet! 

We  have  lived  our  lives  and  God  be  thanked  we  go 
Together  thro’  this  darkness.  We  shall  wake, 

Please  God,  together.  It  is  growing  darker! 

1 cannot  see  your  faces.  Give  me  my  bow 
Quickly  into  my  hands,  for  my  strength  fails 
And  I must  shoot  one  last  shaft  on  the  trail 
Of  yonder  setting  sun,  never  to  reach  it! 


268 


SHERWOOD 


But  where  this  last,  last  bolt  of  all  my  strength, 

My  hope,  my  love,  shall  fall,  there  bury  us  both, 

Together,  and  tread  the  green  turf  over  us! 

The  bow! 

[Scarlet  hands  him  his  bow . He  stands  against  the  faint  glow 
of  the  window,  draws  the  bow  to  full  length , shoots  and 
falls  back  into  the  arms  of  Little  John.] 

LITTLE  JOHN 
[Laying  him  down.] 

Weep,  England,  for  thine  outlawed  lover, 

Dear  Robin  blood,  the  poor  man’s  friend,  is  dead. 

[The  scene  becomes  quite  dark.  Then  out  of  the  darkness , and  as 
if  at  a distance,  the  voice  of  Shadow-of-a-Leaf  is 
heard  singing  the  fairy  song  of  the  first  scene . The 
fairy  glade  in  Sherwood  begins  to  be  visible  in  the  gloom 
by  the  soft  light  of  the  ivory  gates  which  are  swinging 
open  once  more  among  the  ferns.  As  the  scene  grows 
clearer  the  song  of  Shadow-of-a-Leaf  grows  more  and 
more  triumphant  and  is  gradually  caught  up  by  the 
chorus  of  the  fairy  host  within  the  woods.] 

[Song  of  Shadow-of-a-Leaf.] 

I 

The  Forest  has  conquered!  The  Forest  has  conquered!  The 
Forest  has  conquered! 

The  world  begins  again! 

And  0,  the  red  of  the  roses, 

And  the  rush  of  the  healing  rain! 

II 

Th°  Forest  has  conquered!  The  Forest  has  conquered!  The 
Forest  has  conquered! 

The  Princess  wakes  from  sleep; 

For  the  soft  green  keys  of  the  wood-land 
Have  opened  her  donjon-keep! 


SHERWOOD 


269 


III 

The  Forest  has  conquered!  The  Forest  has  conquered!  The 
Forest  has  conquered ! 

Their  grey  walls  hemmed  us  round; 

But,  under  my  greenwood  oceans, 

Their  castles  are  trampled  and  drowned. 

IV 

The  Forest  has  conquered!  The  Forest  has  conquered!  The 
Forest  has  conquered! 

My  green  sprays  climbed  on  high, 

And  the  ivy  laid  hold  on  their  turrets 
And  haled  them  down  from  the  sky! 


V 

The  Forest  has  conquered!  The  Forest  has  conquered!  The 
Forest  has  conquered! 

They  were  strong!  They  are  overthrown ! 

For  the  little  soft  hands  of  the  wild-flowers 
Have  broken  them,  stone  by  stone. 

VI 

The  Forest  has  conquered!  The  Forest  has  conquered!  The 
Forest  has  conquered! 

Though  Robin  lie  dead,  lie  dead, 

And  the  green  turf  by  Kirklee 
Lie  light  over  Marian’s  head, 

VII 

Green  ferns  on  the  crimson  sky-line, 

What  bugle  have  you  heard? 

Was  it  only  the  peal  of  the  blue-bells, 

Was  it  only  the  call  of  a bird? 


270 


SHERWOOD 


VIII 

The  Forest  has  conquered!  The  Forest  has  conquered!  The 
Forest  has  conquered! 

The  rose  o’er  the  fortalice  floats! 

My  nightingales  chant  in  their  chapels, 

My  lilies  have  bridged  their  moats! 

IX 

The  Forest  has  conquered ! The  Forest  has  conquered ! The 
Forest  has  conquered! 

King  Death,  in  the  light  of  the  sun, 

Shrinks  like  an  elfin  shadow! 

His  reign  is  over  and  done! 

X 

The  hawthorn  whitens  the  wood-land; 

My  lovers,  awake,  awake, 

Shake  off  the  grass-green  coverlet, 

Glide,  bare-foot,  thro’  the  brake! 

XI 

The  Forest  has  conquered!  The  Forest  has  conquered!  The 
Forest  has  conquered! 

And,  under  the  great  green  boughs, 

I have  found  out  a place  for  my  lovers, 

I have  built  them  a beautiful  house. 

XII 

Green  ferns  in  the  dawn-red  dew-fall, 

This  gift  by  my  death  I give, — 

They  shall  wander  immortal  thro’  Sherwood! 

In  my  great  green  house  they  shall  live! 

XIII 

The  Forest  has  conquered!  The  Forest  has  conquered!  The 
Forest  has  conquered! 

When  the  first  wind  blows  from  the  South, 

They  shall  meet  by  the  Gates  of  FaSrie! 

She  shall  set  her  mouth  to  his  mouth! 


SHERWOOD 


271 


XIV 

He  shall  gather  her,  fold  her  and  keep  her; 

They  shall  pass  thro'  the  Gates,  they  shall  live! 
For  the  Forest,  the  Forest  has  conquered ! 

This  gift  by  my  death  I give! 

XV 

The  Forest  has  conquered!  The  Forest  has  conquered!  The 
Forest  has  conquered! 

The  world  awakes  anew; 

And  O,  the  scent  of  the  hawthorn, 

And  the  drip  of  the  healing  dew! 

[The  song  ceases.  Titania  and  Oberon  come  out  into  the  moon- 
lit glade.] 

OBERON 

Yet  one  night  more  the  gates  of  fairyland 
Are  opened  by  a mortal's  kindly  deed. 

But  Robin  Hood  and  Marian  now  are  driven 
As  we  shall  soon  be  driven,  from  the  world 
Of  cruel  mortals. 


TITANIA 

Mortals  call  them  dead; 
Oberon,  what  is  death? 


OBERON 
Only  a sleep. 

But  these  may  dream  their  happy  dreams  in  death 
Before  they  wake  to  that  new  lovely  life 
Beyond  the  shadows;  for  poor  Shadow-of-a-Leaf 
Has  given  them  this  by  love's  eternal  law 
Of  sacrifice,  and  they  shall  enter  in 
To  dream  their  lover's  dream  in  fairyland. 

TITANIA 

And  Shadow-of-a-Leaf? 

OBERON 


The  gates  are  closed  against  him. 


He  cannot  enter  now. 


272 


SHERWOOD 


For  ever? 


TXTANXA 


But  is  this 


OBERON 

We  fairies  have  not  known  or  heard 
What  waits  for  those  who,  like  this  wandering  Fool, 

Throw  all  away  for  love.  But  X have  heard 
There  is  a great  King,  out  beyond  the  world, 

Not' Richard,  who  is  dead,  nor  yet  King  John; 

But  a greart  King  who  one  day  will  come  home 
Clothed  with  the  clouds  of  heaven  from  His  Crusade. 

TXTANXA 

The  great  King! 

OBERON 

Hush,  the  poor  dark  mortals  come! 

[The  crowd  of  serfs , old  men , poor  women , and  children , begin  to 
enter  as  the  fairy  song  swells  up  within  the  gates  again . 
Robin  and  Marian  are  led  along  by  a crowd  of  fairies 
at  the  end  of  the  procession.] 

TITANXA 

And  there,  see,  there  come  Robin  and  his  bride. 

And  the  fairies  lead  them  on,  strewing  their  path 
With  ferns  and  moon-flowers.  See,  they  have  entered  in! 

[The  last  fairy  vanishes  thro ’ the  gates.] 

OBERON 

And  we  must  follow,  for  the  gates  may  close 
For  ever  now.  Hundreds  of  years  may  pass 
Before  another  mortal  gives  his  life 
To  help  the  poor  and  needy. 

[Oberon  and  Titania  follow  hand  in  hand  thro’  the  gates.  They 
begin  to  close . Shadow-of-a-Leaf  steals  wistfully 
and  hesitatingly  across , as  if  to  enter.  They  close 
in  his  face.  He  goes  up  to  them  and  leans  against 
them  sobbing , a small  green  figure , looking  like  a 
greenwood  spray  against  their  soft  ivory  glow.  The 


SHERWOOD 


273 


fairy  music  dies . He  sinks  to  his  knees  and  holds  up 
his  hands.  Immediately  a voice  is  heard  singing  and 
drawing  nearer  thro 9 the  forest.] 

[Song — drawing  nearer.] 

Knight  on  the  narrow  way, 

Where  wouldst  tnou  ride? 

“ On ward,”  I heard  him  say, 

“Love,  to  thy  side!” 

“Nay,”  sang  a bird  above, 

“Stay,  for  I see 
Death  in  the  mask  of  love 
Waiting  for  thee.” 

[Enter  Blondel,  leading  a great  white  steed.  He  stops  and  looks 
at  the  kneeling  figure.] 

BLONDEL 

Shadow-of-a-Leaf ! 

SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 

[Rising  to  his  feet.] 

Blondel! 


My  King/ 


BLONDEL 

I go  to  seek 


SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF 
[In  passionate  grief.] 
The  King  is  dead! 


BLONDEL 

[In  yet  more  passionate  joy  and  triumph.] 

The  great  King  lives! 
[Then  more  tenderly.] 

Will  you  not  come  and  look  for  Him  with  me? 

[They  go  slowly  together  through  the  forest  and  are  lost  to  sight. 

Blondei/s  voice  is  heard  singing  the  third  stanza 
of  the  song  in  the  distance , further  and  further  away.] 
“Death?  What  is  Death?”  he  cried. 

“I  must  ride  on!” 

[Curtain.] 


18 


274 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 

I 

A KNIGHT  OF  THE  OCEAN-SEA 

Under  that  foggy  sunset  London  glowed, 

Like  one  huge  cob-webbed  flagon  of  old  wine. 

And,  as  I walked  down  Fleet  Street,  the  soft  sky 
Flowed  thro’  the  roaring  thoroughfares,  transfused 
Their  hard  sharp  outlines,  blurred  the  throngs  of  black 
On  either  pavement,  blurred  the  rolling  stream 
Of  red  and  yellow  busses,  till  the  town 
Turned  to  a golden  suburb  of  the  clouds. 

And,  round  that  mighty  bubble  of  St.  PauTs, 

Over  the  up-turned  faces  of  the  street, 

An  air-ship  slowly  sailed,  with  whirring  fans, 

A voyager  in  the  new-found  realms  of  gold, 

A shadowy  silken  chrysalis  whence  should  break 
What  radiant  wings  in  centuries  to  be. 

So,  wandering  on,  while  all  the  shores  of  Time 
Softened  into  Eternity,  it  seemed 
A dead  man  touched  me  with  his  living  hand, 

A flaming  legend  passed  me  in  the  streets 
Of  London — laugh  who  will — that  City  of  Clouds, 
Where  what  a dreamer  yet,  in  spite  of  all, 

Is  man,  that  splendid  visionary  child 
Who  sent  his  fairy  beacon  through  the  dusk, 

On  a blue  bus  before  the  moon  was  risen, — 

This  Night , at  eight , The  Tempest! 


Dreaming  thus, 

(Small  wonder  that  my  footsteps  went  astray!) 

I found  myself  within  a narrow  street, 

Alone.  There  was  no  rumour,  near  or  far, 

Of  the  long  tides  of  traffic.  In  my  doubt 
I turned  and  knocked  upon  an  old  inn-door, 


A KNIGHT  OF  THE  OCEAN-SEA 


275 


Hard  by,  an  ancient  inn  of  mullioned  panes, 

And  crazy  beams  and  over-hanging  eaves : 

And,  as  I knocked,  the  slowly  changing  west 
Seemed  to  change  all  the  world  with  it  and  leave 
Only  that  old  inn  steadfast  and  unchanged, 

A rock  in  the  rich-coloured  tides  of  time. 


And,  suddenly,  as  a song  that  wholly  escapes 
Remembrance,  at  one  note,  wholly  returns, 
There,  as  I knocked,  memory  returned  to  me. 

I knew  it  all — the  little  twisted  street, 

The  rough  wet  cobbles  gleaming,  far  away, 

Like  opals,  where  it  ended  on  the  sky; 

And,  overhead,  the  darkly  smiling  face 
Of  that  old  wizard  inn;  I knew  by  rote 
The  smooth  sun-bubbles  in  the  worn  green  paint 
Upon  the  doors  and  shutters. 


There  was  one 

Myself  had  idly  scratched  away  one  dawn, 

One  mad  May-dawn,  three  hundred  years  ago, 

When  out  of  the  woods  we  came  with  hawthorn  boughs 
And  found  the  doors  locked,  as  they  seemed  to-night. 
Three  hundred  years  ago — nay,  Time  was  dead ! 

No  need  to  scan  the  sign -board  any  more 
Where  that  white-breasted  siren  of  the  sea 
Curled  her  moon-silvered  tail  among  such  rocks 
As  never  in  the  merriest  seaman's  tale 
Broke  the  blue-bliss  of  fabulous  lagoons 
Beyond  the  Spanish  Main. 


And,  through  the  dream, 
Even  as  I stood  and  listened,  came  a sound 
Of  clashing  wine-cups:  then  a deep- voiced  song 
Made  the  old  timbers  of  the  Mermaid  Inn 
Shake  as  a galleon  shakes  in  a gale  of  wind 
When  she  rolls  glorying  through  the  Ocean-sea. 


276 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


SONG 

i 

Marchaunt  Adventurers,  chanting  at  the  windlass, 

Early  in  the  morning,  we  slipped  from  Plymouth  Sound, 

All  for  Adventure  in  the  great  New  Regions, 

All  for  Eldorado  and  to  sail  the  world  around! 

Sing!  the  red  of  sun-rise  ripples  round  the  bows  again. 

Marchaunt  Adventurers,  0 sing,  we’re  outward  bound, 

All  to  stuff  the  sunset  in  our  old  black  galleon, 

All  to  seek  the  merchandise  that  no  man  ever  found. 

• 

Chorus : Marchaunt  Adventurers! 

Marchaunt  Adventurers! 

Marchaunt  Adventurers,  0,  whither  are  ye  bound? — 

All  for  Eldorado  and  the  great  new  Sky-line, 

All  to  seek  the  merchandise  that  no  man  ever  found. 

ii 

Marchaunt  Adventurers,  0,  what’ull  ye  bring  home  again? — 
Wonders  and  works  and  the  thunder  of  the  sea! 

Whom  will  ye  traffic  with? — The  King  of  the  Sunset! 

What  shall  be  your  pilot  then? — A wind  from  Galilee. 

Nay,  but  ye  be  marchaunts,  will  ye  come  back  empty-handed? — ■ 
Ay,  we  be  marchaunts,  though  our  gain  we  ne’er  shall  see. 
Cast  we  now  our  bread  upon  the  waste  wild  waters. 

After  many  days,  it  shall  return  with  usury. 

Chorus : Marchaunt  Adventurers! 

Marchaunt  Adventurers! 

What  shall  be  your  profit  in  the  mighty  days  to  be? — 
Englande ! — Englande ! — En  glande ! — Englande ! — 

Glory  everlasting  and  the  lordship  of  the  sea! 

And  there,  framed  in  the  lilac  patch  of  sky 
That  ended  the  steep  street,  dark  on  its  light, 

And  standing  on  those  glistering  cobblestones 
Just  where  they  took  the  sunset’s  kiss,  I saw 
A figure  like  foot-feathered  Mercury, 

Tall,  straight  and  splendid  as  a sunset-cloud. 


A KNIGHT  OF  THE  OCEAN-SEA 


277 


Clad  in  a crimson  doublet  and  trunk-hose, 

A rapier  at  his  side;  and,  as  he  paused, 

His  long  fantastic  shadow  swayed  and  swept 
Against  my  feet. 

A moment  he  looked  back, 

Then  swaggered  down  as  if  he  owned  a world 
Which  had  forgotten — did  I wake  or  dream? — 

Even  his  gracious  ghost! 

Over  his  arm 

He  swung  a gorgeous  murrey-coloured  cloak 
Of  Ciprus  velvet,  caked  and  smeared  with  mud 
As  on  the  day  when — did  I dream  or  wake? 

And  had  not  all  this  happened  once  before? — 

When  he  had  laid  that  cloak  before  the  feet 
Of  Gloriana!  By  that  mud-stained  cloak, 

’Twas  he!  Our  Ocean-Shepherd!  Walter  Raleigh! 
He  brushed  me  passing,  and  with  one  vigorous  thrust 
Opened  the  door  and  entered.  At  his  heels 
I followed — into  the  Mermaid! — through  three  yards 
Of  pitch-black  gloom,  then  into  an  old  inn-parlour 
Swimming  with  faces  in  a mist  of  smoke 
That  up-curled,  blue,  from  long  Winchester  pipes, 
While — like  some  rare  old  picture,  in  a dream 
Recalled — quietly  listening,  laughing,  watching, 

Pale  on  that  old  black  oaken  wainscot  floated 
One  bearded  oval  face,  young,  with  deep  eyes, 

Whom  Raleigh  hailed  as  “ Will!” 

But  as  I stared 

A sudden  buffet  from  a brawny  hand 
Made  all  my  senses  swim,  and  the  room  rang 
With  laughter  as  upon  the  rush-strewn  floor 
My  feet  slipped  and  I fell.  Then  a gruff  voice 
Growled  over  me — “Get  up  now,  John-a-dreams, 

Or  else  mine  host  must  find  another  drawer ! 

Hast  thou  not  heard  us  calling  all  this  while  ?’ 7 
And,  as  I scrambled  up,  the  rafters  rang 
With  cries  of  “Sack!  Bring  me  a cup  of  sack! 
Canary!  Sack!  Malmsey!  and  Muscadel!” 

I understood  and  flew.  I was  awake, 

A leather- jerkined  pot-boy  to  these  gods, 

A prentice  Ganymede  to  the  Mermaid  Inn! 


278 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


There,  flitting  to  and  fro  with  cups  of  wine, 

I heard  them  toss  the  Chrysomelan  names 
From  mouth  to  mouth — Lyly  and  Peele  and  Lodge, 

Kit  Marlowe,  Michael  Drayton,  and  the  rest, 

With  Ben,  rare  Ben,  brick-layer  Ben,  who  rolled 
Like  a great  galleon  on  his  ingle-bench. 

Some  twenty  years  of  age  he  seemed;  and  yet 
This  young  Gargantua  with  the  bull-dog  jaws, 

The  T,  for  Tyburn,  branded  on  his  thumb, 

And  grim  pock-pitted  face,  was  growling  tales 
To  Dekker  that  would  fright  a buccaneer, — 

How  in  the  fierce  Low  Countries  he  had  killed 
His  man,  and  won  that  scar  on  his  bronzed  fist; 

Was  taken  prisoner,  and  turned  Catholick; 

And,  now  returned  to  London,  was  resolved 

To  blast  away  the  vapours  of  the  town 

With  Boreas-throated  plays  of  thunderous  mirth. 

“HI  thwack  their  Tribulation-Wholesomes,  lad, 

Their  Yellow-faced  Envies  and  lean  Thorns-i -the-Flesh, 
At  the  Black-friars  Theatre , or  The  Rose , 

Or  else  The  Curtain.  Failing  these,  I'll  find 
Some  good  square  inn-yard  with  wide  galleries, 

And  windows  level  with  the  stage.  'Twill  serve 
My  Comedy  of  Vapours;  though,  I grant, 

For  Tragedy  a private  House  is  best, 

Or,  just  as  Burbage  tip-toes  to  a deed 
Of  blood,  or,  over  your  stable's  black  half-door, 

Marked  Battlements  in  white  chalk,  your  breathless  David 
Glowers  at  the  whiter  Bathsheba  within, 

Some  humorous  coach-horse  neighs  a ‘hallelujah' ! 

And  the  pit  splits  its  doublets.  Over  goes 
The  whole  damned  apple-barrel,  and  the  yard 
Is  all  one  rough  and  tumble,  scramble  and  scratch 
Of  prentices,  green  madams,  and  cut-purses 
For  half-chewed  Norfolk  pippins.  Never  mind! 

We'll  build  the  perfect  stage  in  Shoreditch  yet. 

And  Will,  there,  hath  half  promised  I shall  write 
A piece  for  his  own  company!  What  d'ye  think 
Of  Venus  and  Adonis , his  first  heir, 

Printed  last  week?  A bouncing  boy,  my  lad! 

And  he's  at  work  on  a Midsummer's  Dream 
That  turns  the  world  to  fairyland!" 


A KNIGHT  OF  THE  OCEAN-SEA 


279 


All  these 

And  many  more  were  there,  and  ail  were  young! 

There,  as  I brimmed  their  cups,  I heard  the  voice 
Of  Raleigh  ringing  across  the  smoke-wreathed  room, — 
“Ben,  could  you  put  a frigate  on  the  stage, 

Eve  found  a tragedy  for  you.  Have  you  heard 
The  true  tale  of  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert?” 

“No!” 


“ Why,  Ben,  of  all  the  tragical  affairs 

Of  the  Ocean-sea,  and  of  that  other  Ocean 

Where  all  men  sail  so  blindly,  and  misjudge 

Their  friends,  their  charts,  their  storms,  their  stars,  their  God, 

If  there  be  truth  in  the  blind  crowderis  song 

I bought  in  Bread  Street  for  a penny,  this 

Is  the  brief  type  and  chronicle  of  them  all. 

Listen!”  Then  Raleigh  sent  these  rugged  rhymes 
Of  some  blind  crowder  rolling  in  great  waves 
Of  passion  across  the  gloom.  At  each  refrain 
He  sank  his  voice  to  a broad  deep  undertone, 

As  if  the  distant  roar  of  breaking  surf 
Or  the  low  thunder  of  eternal  tides 
Filled  up  the  pauses  of  the  nearer  storm, 

Storm  against  storm,  a soul  against  the  sea: — 


A KNIGHT  OF  THE  OCEAN-SEA 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  hard  of  hand, 

Knight-in-chief  of  the  Ocean-sea, 

Gazed  from  the  rocks  of  his  New  Found  Land 
And  thought  of  the  home  where  his  heart  would  be. 

He  gazed  across  the  wintry  waste 

That  weltered  and  hissed  like  molten  lead, — 

“He  saileth  twice  who  saileth  in  haste! 

I'll  wait  the  favour  of  Spring,”  he  said. 

Ever  the  more , ever  the  moref 
He  heard  the  winds  and  the  waves  roar! 
Thunder  on  thunder  shook  the  shore. 


280 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


The  yellow  clots  of  foam  went  by 
Like  shavings  that  curl  from  a ship-wright’s  plane, 
Clinging  and  flying,  afar  and  nigh, 

Shuddering,  flying  and  clinging  again. 


A thousand  bubbles  in  every  one 
Shifted  and  shimmered  with  rainbow  gleams; 

But — had  they  been  planets  and  stars  that  spun 
He  had  let  them  drift  by  his  feet  like  dreams: 

Heavy  of  heart  was  our  Admirall, 

For,  out  of  his  ships — and  they  were  but  three! — 

He  had  lost  the  fairest  and  most  tall, 

And — he  was  a Knight  of  the  Ocean-sea. 

Ever  the  more , ever  the  more , 

He  heard  the  winds  and  the  waves  roar! 

Thunder  on  thunder  shook  the  shore . 

Heavy  of  heart,  heavy  of  heart, 

For  she  was  a galleon  mighty  as  May, 

And  the  storm  that  ripped  her  glory  apart 
Had  stripped  his  soul  for  the  winter’s  way; 

And  he  was  aware  of  a whisper  blown 

From  foc’sle  to  poop,  from  windward  to  lee, 

That  the  fault  was  his,  and  his  alone, 

And — he  was  a Knight  of  the  Ocean-sea.. 

“Had  he  done  that!  Had  he  done  this!” 

And  yet  his  mariners  loved  him  well; 

But  an  idle  word  is  hard  to  miss, 

And  the  foam  hides  more  than  the  deep  can  tell. 

And  the  deep  had  buried  his  best-loved  books, 

With  many  a hard-worn  chart  and  plan: 

And  a king  that  is  conquered  must  see  strange  looks, 
So  bitter  a thing  is  the  heart  of  man! 


A KNIGHT  OF  THE  OCEAN-SEA 


281 


And — “Who  will  you  find  to  pay  your  debt? 

For  a venture  like  this  is  a costly  thing! 

Will  they  stake  yet  more,  tho'  your  heart  be  set 

On  the  mightier  voyage  you  planned  for  the  Spring?” 


He  raised  his  head  like  a Viking  crowned, — 
“I'll  take  my  old  flag  to  her  Majestie, 
And  she  will  lend  me  ten  thousand  pound 
To  ntake  her  Queen  of  the  Ocean-sea!” 


Ever  the  more , ever  the  more , 

He  heard  the  winds  and  the  waves  roar! 
Thunder  on  thunder  shook  the  shore . 


Outside — they  heard  the  great  winds  blow! 

Outside — the  blustering  surf  they  heard, 

And  the  bravest  there  would  ha'  blenched  to  know 
That  they  must  be  taken  at  their  own  word. 


For  the  great  grim  waves  were  as  molten  lead 
— And  he  had  two  ships  who  sailed  with  three! — 
“And  I sail  not  home  till  the  Spring,”  he  said, 
“They  are  all  too  frail  for  the  Ocean-sea.” 


But  the  trumpeter  thought  of  an  ale-house  bench, 
And  the  cabin-boy  longed  for  a Devonshire  lane, 
And  the  gunner  remembered  a green-gowned  wench, 
And  the  fos'cle  whisper  went  round  again, — 


“Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  is  hard  of  hand, 

But  his  courage  went  down  with  the  ship,  may-be, 
And  we  wait  for  the  Spring  in  a desert  land, 

For — he  is  afraid  of  the  Ocean-sea” 


Ever  the  more , ever  the  more, 

He  heard  the  winds  and  the  waves  roar! 
Thunder  on  thunder  shook  the  shore. 


282 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


He  knew,  he  knew  how  the  whisper  went! 

He  knew  he  must  master  it,  last  or  first! 

He  knew  not  how  much  or  how  little  it  meant; 
But  his  heart  was  heavy  and  like  to  burst. 


“Up  with  your  sails,  my  sea-dogs  all! 

The  wind  has  veered!  And  my  ships/'  quoth  he, 
“They  will  serve  for  a British  Admirall 

Who  is  Knight-in-chief  of  the  Ocean-sea!  " 


His  will  was  like  a North-east  wind 
That  swept  along  our  helmless  crew; 

But  he  would  not  stay  on  the  Golden  Hynde , 
For  that  was  the  stronger  ship  of  the  two. 


“My  little  ship's-company,  lads,  hath  passed 
Perils  and  storms  a-many  with  me! 

Would  ye  have  me  forsake  them  at  the  last? 
They'll  need  a Knight  of  the  Ocean-sea!" 


Ever  the  more , ever  the  moret 
We  heard  the  winds  and  the  waves  roar! 
Thunder  on  thunder  shook  the  shore . 


Beyond  Cape  Race,  the  pale  sun  splashed 
The  grim  grey  waves  with  silver  light 
Where,  ever  in  front,  his  frigate  crashed 
Eastward,  for  England  and  the  night. 


And  still  as  the  dark  began  to  fall, 

4 Ever  in  front  of  us,  running  free, 

We  saw  the  sails  of  our  Admirall 
Leading  us  home  through  the  Ocean-sea. 

Ever  the  more , ever  the  more , 

We  heard  the  winds  and  the  waves  roar! 
But  he  sailed  on , sailed  on  before . 


A KNIGHT  OF  THE  OCEAN-SEA 


283 


On  Monday,  at  noon  of  the  third  fierce  day 
A-board  our  Golden  Hynde  he  came, 

With  a trail  of  blood,  marking  his  way 
On  the  salt  wet  decks  as  he  walked  half-lame. 


For  a rusty  nail  thro'  his  foot  had  pierced. 

“Come,  master-surgeon,  mend  it  for  me; 

Though  I would  it  were  changed  for  the  nails  that  amerced 
The  dying  thief  upon  Calvary.” 

The  surgeon  bathed  and  bound  his  foot, 

And  the  master  entreated  him  sore  to  stay; 

But  roughly  he  pulled  on  his  great  sea-boot 

With — “The  wind  is  rising  and  I must  away!” 

I know  not  why  so  little  a thing, 

When  into  his  pinnace  we  helped  him  down, 

Should  make  our  eyelids  prick  and  sting 
As  the  salt  spray  were  into  them  blown, 

But  he  called  as  he  went — “Keep  watch  and  steer 
By  my  lanthorn  at  night!”  Then  he  waved  his  hand 

With  a kinglier  watch-word,  “We  are  as  near 
To  heaven,  my  lads,  by  sea  as  by  land!” 

Ever  the  more , ever  the  more , 

We  heard  the  gathering  tempest  roar! 

But  he  sailed  on}  sailed  on  before. 

Three  hundred  leagues  on  our  homeward  road, 

We  strove  to  signal  him,  swooping  nigh, 

That  he  would  ease  his  decks  of  their  load 
Of  nettings  and  fights  and  artillery. 

And  dark  and  dark  that  night  ’gan  fall, 

And  high  the  muttering  breakers  swelled, 

Till  that  strange  fire  which  seamen  call 
“Castor  and  Pollux,”  we  beheld, 


284 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


An  evil  sign  of  peril  and  death, 

Burning  pale  on  the  high  main-mast; 
But  calm  with  the  might  of  Gennesareth 
Our  AdmiralFs  voice  went  ringing  past. 


Clear  thro*  the  thunders,  far  and  clear, 
Mighty  to  counsel,  clear  to  command, 
Joyfully  ringing,  “We  are  as  near 

To  heaven,  my  lads,  by  sea  as  by  land!” 


Ever  the  more , ever  the  more , 

We  heard  the  rising  hurricane  roar! 
But  he  sailed  on,  sailed  on  before. 


And  over  us  fled  the  fleet  of  the  stars, 
And,  ever  in  front  of  us,  far  or  nigh, 
The  lanthorn  on  his  cross-tree  spars 
Dipped  to  the  Pit  or  soared  to  the  Sky! 


’Twould  sweep  to  the  lights  of  Charles’s  Wain, 
As  the  hills  of  the  deep  ’ud  mount  and  flee, 
Then  swoop  down  vanishing  cliffs  again 
To  the  thundering  gulfs  of  the  Ocean-sea. 


We  saw  it  shine  as  it  swooped  from  the  height, 
With  ruining  breakers  on  every  hand, 

Then — a cry  came  out  of  the  black  mid-night, 

As  near  to  heaven  by  sea  as  by  land ! 

And  the  light  was  out!  Like  a wind-blown  spark, 
All  in  a moment!  And  we — and  we — 

Prayed  for  his  soul  as  we  swept  thro’  the  dark; 

For  he  was  a Knight  of  the  Ocean-sea. 

Over  our  fleets  for  evermore 

The  winds  full  triumph  and  the  waves  roar! 

But  he  sails  on,  satis  on  before ! 


A COINER  OF  ANGELS 


285 


Silence  a moment  held  the  Mermaid  Inn, 

Then  Michael  Drayton,  raising  a cup  of  wine, 
Stood  up  and  said, — “ Since  many  have  obtained 
Absolute  glory  that  have  done  great  deeds, 

But  fortune  is  not  in  the  power  of  man, 

So  they  that,  truly  attempting,  nobly  fail, 

Deserve  great  honour  of  the  common- wealth. 

Such  glory  did  the  Greeks  and  Romans  give 
To  those  that  in  great  enterprises  fell 
Seeking  the  true  commodity  of  their  country 
And  profit  to  all  mankind;  for,  though  they  failed, 
Being  by  war,  death,  or  some  other  chance, 
Hindered,  their  images  were  set  up  in  brass, 
Marble  and  silver,  gold  and  ivory, 

In  solemn  temples  and  great  palace-halls, 

No  less  to  make  men  emulate  their  virtues 
Than  to  give  honour  to  their  just  deserts. 

God,  from  the  time  that  He  first  made  the  world, 
Hath  kept  the  knowledge  of  His  Ocean-sea 
And  the  huge  iEquinoctiall  Continents 
Reserved  unto  this  day.  Wherefore  I think 
No  high  exploit  of  Greece  and  Rome  but  seems 
A little  thing  to  these  Discoveries 
Which  our  adventurous  captains  even  now 
Are  making,  out  there,  Westward,  in  the  night, 
Captains  most  worthy  of  commendation, 

Hugh  Willoughby — God  send  him  home  again 
Safe  to  the  Mermaid! — and  Dick  Chauncelior, 
That  excellent  pilot.  Doubtless  this  man,  too, 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  was  worthy  to  be  made 
Knight  of  the  Ocean-sea.  I bid  you  all 
Stand  up,  and  drink  to  his  immortal  fame!” 


II 

A COINER  OF  ANGELS 

Some  three  nights  later,  thro*  the  thick  brown  fog, 
A link-boy,  dropping  flakes  of  crimson  fire, 

Flared  to  the  door  and,  through  its  glowing  frame, 


286 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Ben  Jonson  and  Kit  Marlowe,  arm  in  arm, 

Swaggered  into  the  Mermaid  Inn  and  called 
For  red-deer  pies. 

There,  as  they  supped,  I caught 
Scraps  of  ambrosial  talk  concerning  Will, 

His  Venus  and  Adonis . 

“ Gabriel  thought 

Twas  wrong  to  change  the  old  writers  and  create 
A cold  Adonis." 

— “Laws  were  made  for  Will, 

Not  Will  for  laws,  since  first  he  stole  a buck 
In  Charlecote  woods/' 

— “ Where  never  a buck  chewed  fern, 
Laughed  Kit,  “ unless  it  chewed  the  fern  seed,  too, 

And  walked  invisible." 

“ Bring  me  some  wine,"  called  Ben, 
And,  with  his  knife  thrumming  upon  the  board, 

He  chanted,  while  his  comrade  munched  and  smiled. 


Will  Shakespeare's  out  like  Robin  Hood 
With  his  merry  men  all  in  green, 

To  steal  a deer  in  Charlecote  wood 
Where  never  a deer  was  seen. 


n 

He's  hunted  all  a night  of  June, 

He's  followed  a phantom  horn, 

He's  killed  a buck  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 
Under  a fairy  thorn. 


hi 

He's  carried  it  home  with  his  merry,  merry  band, 
There  never  was  haunch  so  fine; 

For  this  buck  was  born  in  Elfin-land 
And  fed  upon  sops-in-wine. 


A COINER  OF  ANGELS 


287 


IV 

This  buck  had  browsed  on  elfin  boughs 
Of  rose-marie  and  bay, 

And  he’s  carried  it  home  to  the  little  white  house 
Of  sweet  Anne  Hathaway. 


v 

“The  dawn  above  your  thatch  is  red! 

Slip  out  of  your  bed,  sweet  Anne! 

I have  stolen  a fairy  buck,”  he  said, 

“The  first  since  the  world  began. 

VI 

“Roast  it  on  a golden  spit, 

And  see  that  it  do  not  burn; 

For  we  never  shall  feather  the  like  of  it 
Out  of  the  fairy  fern.” 

VII 

She  scarce  had  donned  her  long  white  gown 
And  given  him  kisses  four, 

When  the  surly  Sheriff  of  Stratford-town 
Knocked  at  the  little  green  door. 

VIII 

They  have  gaoled  sweet  Will  for  a poacher; 

But  squarely  he  fronts  the  squire, 

With  “WTien  did  you  hear  in  your  woods  of  a deer? 
Was  it  undor  a fairy  briar?” 


IX 

Sir  Thomas  he  puffs, — “If  God  thought  good 
My  water-butt  ran  with  wine, 

Or  He  dropt  me  a buck  in  Charlecote  wood, 

I wot  it  is  mine,  not  thine!” 


288 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


x 

“If  you  would  eat  of  elfin  meat,” 

Says  Will,  “you  must  blow  up  your  horn! 

Take  your  bow,  and  feather  the  doe 
That’s  under  the  fairy  thorn! 

XI 

“If  you  would  feast  on  elfin  food, 

You’ve  only  the  way  to  learn! 

Take  your  bow  and  feather  the  doe 
That’s  under  the  fairy  fern!” 

XII 

They’re  hunting  high,  they’re  hunting  low, 
They’re  all  away,  away, 

With  horse  and  hound  to  feather  the  doe 
That’s  under  the  fairy  spray! 

XIII 

Sir  Thomas  he  raged!  Sir  Thomas  he  swore! 
But  all  and  all  in  vain; 

For  there  never  was  deer  in  his  woods  before, 
And  there  never  would  be  again! 


And,  as  I brought  the  wine — “This  is  my  grace,” 

Laughed  Kit,  “Diana  grant  the  jolly  buck 

That  Shakespeare  stole  were  toothsome  as  this  pie.” 

He  suddenly  sank  his  voice, — “Hist,  who  comes  here? 
Look — Richard  Bame,  the  Puritan!  0,  Ben,  Ben, 
Your  Mermaid  Inn’s  the  study  for  the  stage, 

Your  only  teacher  of  exits,  entrances, 

And  all  the  shifting  comedy.  Be  grave! 

Bame  is  the  godliest  hypocrite  on  earth! 

Remember  I’m  an  atheist,  black  as  coal. 


A COINER  OF  ANGELS 


289 


He  nas  called  me  Wormall  in  an  anagram. 

Help  me  to  bait  him;  but  be  very  grave. 

We'll  talk  of  Venus." 

As  he  whispered  thus, 

A long  white  face  with  small  black-beaded  eyes 
Peered  at  him  through  the  doorway.  All  too  well, 
Afterwards,  I recalled  that  scene,  when  Bame, 

Out  of  revenge  for  this  same  night,  I guessed, 

Penned  his  foul  tract  on  Marlowe's  tragic  fate; 

And,  twelve  months  later,  I watched  our  Puritan 
Riding  to  Tyburn  in  the  hangman's  cart 
For  thieving  from  an  old  bed-ridden  dame 
With  whom  he  prayed,  at  supper-time,  on  Sundays. 

Like  a conspirator  he  sidled  in, 

Clasping  a little  pamphlet  to  his  breast, 

While,  feigning  not  to  see  him,  Ben  began: — 

“Will's  Venus  and  Adonis , Kit,  is  rare, 

A round,  sound,  full-blown  piece  of  thorough  work, 

On  a great  canvas,  coloured  like  one  I saw 
In  Italy,  by  one — Titian!  None  of  the  toys 
Of  artistry  your  lank-haired  losels  turn, 

Y our  Phyllida — Love-lies-bleeding — Kiss-me-Quicks, 
Your  fluttering  Sighs  and  Mark-how-I-break-my-beats, 
Begotten  like  this,  whenever  and  how  you  list, 

Your  Moths  of  verse  that  shrivel  in  every  taper; 

But  a sound  piece  of  craftsmanship  to  last 
Until  the  stars  are  out.  'Tis  twice  the  length 
Of  Vergil's  books — he's  listening!  Nay,  don't  look! — 
Two  hundred  solid  stanzas,  think  of  that; 

But  each  a square  celestial  brick  of  gold 
Laid  level  and  splendid.  I've  laid  bricks  and  know 
What  thorough  work  is.  If  a storm  should  shake 
The  Tower  of  London  down,  Will's  house  would  stand. 
Look  at  his  picture  of  the  stallion, 

Nostril  to  croup,  that's  thorough  finished  work!" 

“ 'Twill  shock  our  Tribulation- Wholesomes,  Ben! 

Think  of  that  kiss  of  Venus!  Deep,  sweet,  slow, 

19 


290 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


As  the  dawn  breaking  to  its  perfect  flower 
And  golden  moon  of  bliss;  then  slow,  sweet,  deep, 

Like  a great  honeyed  sunset  it  dissolves 
Away!” 

A hollow  groan,  like  a bass  viol, 

Resounded  thro7  the  room.  Up  started  Kit 
In  feigned  alarm — “What,  Master  Richard  Bame! 
Quick,  Ben,  the  good  man’s  ill.  Bring  him  some  wine! 
Red  vine  for  Master  Bame,  the  blood  of  Venus 
That  stained  the  rose!” 


“White  wine  for  Master  Bame,” 
Ben  echoed,  “Juno’s  cream  that”  . . . Both  at  once 
They  thrust  a wine-cup  to  the  sallow  lips 
And  smote  him  on  the  back. 

“Sirs,  you  mistake!”  coughed  Bame,  waving  his  hand 
And  struggling  to  his  feet, 

“ Sirs,  I have  brought 

A message  from  a youth  who  walked  with  you 
In  wantonness,  aforetime,  and  is  now 
Groaning  in  sulphurous  fires!” 

“Kit,  that  means  hell!” 
“Yea,  sirs,  a pamphlet  from  the  pit  of  hell, 

Written  by  Robert  Greene  before  he  died. 

Mark  what  he  styles  it — A Groatsworth  of  Wit 
Bought  with  a Million  of  Repentance /” 

“Ah, 

Poor  Rob  was  all  his  life-time  either  drunk, 

Wenching,  or  penitent,  Ben!  Poor  lad,  he  died 
Young.  Let  me  see  now,  Master  Bame,  you  say 
Rob  Greene  wrote  this  on  earth  before  he  died, 

And  then  you  printed  it  yourself  in  hell!” 

“Stay,  sir,  I came  not  to  this  haunt  of  sin 
To  make  mirth  for  Beelzebub!” 


“0,  Ben, 


That’s  you!” 

“ ’Swounds,  sir,  am  I Beelzebub? 
Ogs-gogs!”  roared  Ben,  his  hand  upon  his  hilt! 
“Nay,  sir,  I signified  the  god  of  flies! 

I spake  out  of  the  scriptures!”  snuffled  Bame 
With  deprecating  eye. 


A COINER  OF  ANGELS 


291 


“I  come  to  save 
A brand  that  you  have  kindled  at  your  fire, 

But  not  yet  charred,  not  yet  so  far  consumed, 

One  Richard  Cholmeley,  who  declares  to  all 

He  was  persuaded  to  turn  atheist 

By  Marlowe’s  reasoning.  I have  wrestled  with  him, 

But  find  him  still  so  constant  to  your  words 
That  only  you  can  save  him  from  the  fire.” 

“Why,  Master  Bame,”  said  Kit,  “had  I the  keys 
To  hell,  the  damned  should  all  come  out  and  dance 
A morrice  round  the  Mermaid  Inn  to-night.” 

“Nay,  sir,  the  damned  are  damned!” 

“Come,  sit  you  down! 

Take  some  more  wine!  You’d  have  them  all  be  damned 
Except  Dick  Cholmeley.  What  must  I unsay 
To  save  him?”  A quick  eyelid  dropt  at  Ben. 

“Now  tell  me,  Master  Bame!” 

“Sir,  he  derides 

The  books  of  Moses!” 


“Bame,  do  you  believe? — 
There’s  none  to  hear  us  but  Beelzebub — 

Do  you  believe  that  we  must  taste  of  death 
Because  God  set  a foolish  naked  wench 
Too  near  an  apple-tree,  how  long  ago? 

Five  thousand  years?  But  there  were  men  on  earth 
Long  before  that!”  “Nay,  nay,  sir,  if  you  read 
The  books  of  Moses  ...”  “Moses  was  a juggler!” 
“A  juggler,  sir,  how,  what!”  “Nay,  sir,  be  calm! 
Take  some  more  wine — the  white,  if  that’s  too  red! 

I never  cared  for  Moses!  Help  yourself 
To  red-deer  pie.  Good! 

All  the  miracles 

You  say  that  he  performed — why,  what  are  they? 

I know  one  Heriots,  lives  in  Friday  Street, 

Can  do  much  more  than  Moses ! Eat  your  pie 
In  patience,  friend,  the  mouth  of  man  performs 
One  good  work  at  a time.  What  says  he,  Ben? 

The  red -deer  stops  his — what?  Sticks  in  his  gizzard? 
0 — led  them  through  the  wilderness!  No  doubt 
He  did — for  forty  years,  and  might  have  made 
The  journey  in  six  months.  Believe  me,  sir, 


292 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


That  is  no  miracle.  Moses  gulled  the  Jews! 

Skilled  in  the  sly  tricks  of  the  Egyptians, 

Only  one  art  betrayed  him.  Sir,  his  books 
Are  filthily  written.  I would  undertake — 

If  I were  put  to  write  a new  religion — 

A method  far  more  admirable.  Eh,  what? 

Gruel  in  the  vestibule f Interpret,  Ben! 

His  mouth's  too  full!  0,  the  New  Testament ! 

Why,  there,  consider,  were  not  all  the  Apostles 
Fishermen  and  base  fellows,  without  wit 
Or  worth?" — again  his  eyelid  dropt  at  Ben  ~ 

“The  Apostle  Paul  alone  had  wit,  and  he 
Was  a most  timorous  fellow  in  bidding  us 
Prostrate  ourselves  to  worldly  magistrates 
Against  our  conscience!  I shall  fry  for  this? 

I fear  no  bugbears  or  hobgoblins,  sir, 

And  would  have  all  men  not  to  be  afraid 
Of  roasting,  toasting,  pitch-forks,  or  the  threats 
Of  earthly  ministers,  tho’  their  mouths  be  stuffed 
With  curses  or  with  crusts  of  red-deer  pie! 

One  thing  I will  confess — if  I must  choose — 

Give  me  the  Papists  that  can  serve  their  God 
Not  with  your  scraps,  but  solemn  ceremonies, 

Organs,  and  singing  men,  and  shaven  crowns. 

Your  protestant  is  a hypocritical  ass!" 

“Profligate!  You  blaspheme!"  Up  started  Bame, 

A little  unsteady  now  upon  his  feet, 

And  shaking  his  crumpled  pamphlet  over  his  head ! 

“Nay— if  your  pie  be  done,  you  shall  partake 
A second  course.  Be  seated,  sir,  I pray. 

We  atheists  will  pay  the  reckoning! 

I had  forgotten  that  a Puritan 

Will  swallow  Moses  like  a red-deer  pie 

Vet  choke  at  a wax-candle!  Let  me  read 

Your  pamphlet.  What,  ’tis  half  addressed  to  me! 

Ogs-gogs!  Ben!  Hark  to  this — the  Testament 

Of  poor  Rob  Greene  would  cut  Will  Shakespeare  off 

With  less  than  his  own  Groatsworth!  Hark  to  this!" 

And  there,  unseen  by  them,  a quiet  figure 


A COINER  OF  ANGELS 


293 


Entered  the  room  and  beckoning  me  for  wine 
Seated  himself  to  listen,  Will  himself, 

While  Marlowe  read  aloud  with  knitted  brows. 

“ ‘ Trust  them  not;  for  there  is  an  upstart  crow 
Beautified  with  our  feathers !’ 

— 0,  he  bids 

All  green  eyes  open: — ‘And,  being  an  absolute 
Johannes  fac-totum  is  in  his  own  conceit 
The  only  Shake-scene  in  a country !y  ” 

“ Feathers !” 

Exploded  Ben.  “Why,  come  to  that,  he  pouched 
Your  eagle’s  feather  of  blank  verse,  and  lit 
His  Friar  Bacon’s  little  magic  lamp 
At  the  Promethean  fire  of  Faustus.  Jove, 

It  was  a faery  buck,  indeed,  that  Will 
Poached  in  that  greenwood.” 

“Ben,  see  that  you  walk 
Like  Adam,  naked!  Nay,  in  nakedness 
Adam  was  first.  Trust  me,  you’ll  not  escape 
This  calumny!  Vergil  is  damned — he  wears 
A hen-coop  round  his  waist,  nicked  in  the  night 
From  Homer!  Plato  is  branded  for  a thief, 

Why,  he  wrote  Greek!  And  old  Prometheus,  too, 

Who  stole  his  fire  from  heaven!” 

“Who  printed  it?” 

“Chettle!  I know  not  why,  unless  he  too 
Be  one  of  these  same  dwarfs  that  find  the  world 
Too  narrow  for  their  jealousies.  Ben,  Ben, 

I tell  thee  ’tis  the  dwarfs  that  find  no  world 
Wide  enough  for  their  jostling,  while  the  giants, 

The  gods  themselves,  can  in  one  tavern  find 
Room  wide  enough  to  swallow  the  wide  heaven 
With  all  its  crowded  solitary  stars.” 

“Why,  then,  the  Mermaid  Inn  should  swallow  this,” 
The  voice  of  Shakespeare  quietly  broke  in, 

As  laying  a hand  on  either  shoulder  of  Kit 
He  stood  behind  him  in  the  gloom  and  smiled 
Across  the  table  at  Ben,  whose  eyes  still  blazed 
With  boyhood’s  generous  wrath.  “ Rob  was  a poet. 
And  had  I known  ...  no  matter!  I am  sorry 


294 


TALES  OF  TEE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


He  thought  I wronged  him.  His  heart’s  blood  beats  in  this. 
Look,  where  he  says  he  dies  forsaken,  Kit!” 

“Died  drunk,  more  like,”  growled  Ben.  “And  if  he  did,” 
Will  answered,  “none  was  there  to  help  him  home, 

Had  not  a poor  old  cobbler  chanced  upon  him, 

Dying  in  the  streets,  and  taken  him  to  his  house, 

And  let  him  break  his  heart  on  his  own  bed. 

Read  his  last  words.  You  know  he  left  his  wife 
And  played  the  moth  at  tavern  tapers,  burnt 
His  wings  and  dropt  into  the  mud.  Read  here, 

His  dying  words  to  his  forsaken  wife, 

Written  in  blood,  Ben,  blood.  Read  it,  ‘I  charge  thee, 

Doll , by  the  love  of  our  youth , by  my  soul’s  rest , 

See  this  man  paid ! Had  he  not  succoured  me 
1 had  died  in  the  streets.’  How  young  he  was  to  call 
Thus  on  their  poor  dead  youth,  this  withered  shadow 
That  once  was  Robin  Greene.  He  left  a child — 

See — in  its  face  he  prays  her  not  to  find 
The  father’s,  but  her  own.  1 He  is  yet  green 
And  may  grovj  straight,’  so  flickers  his  last  jest, 

Then  out  for  ever.  At  the  last  he  begged 
A penny-pott  of  malmsey.  In  the  bill, 

All’s  printed  now  for  crows  and  daws  to  peck, 

You’ll  find  four  shillings  for  his  winding  sheet. 

He  had  the  poet’s  heart  and  God  help  all 
Who  have  that  heart  and  somehow  lose  their  way 
For  lack  of  helm,  souls  that  are  blown  abroad 
By  the  great  winds  of  passion,  without  power 
To  swray  them,  chartless  captains.  Multitudes  ply 
Trimly  enough  from  bank  to  bank  of  Thames 
Like  shallow  wherries,  while  tall  galleons, 

Out  of  their  very  beauty  driven  to  dare 

The  uncompassed  sea,  founder  in  starless  nights, 

And  all  that  we  can  say  is — ‘ They  died  drunk!’” 

“I  have  it  from  veracious  witnesses,” 

Bame  snuffled,  “that  the  death  of  Robert  Greene 
Was  caused  by  a surfeit,  sir,  of  Rhenish  wine 
And  pickled  herrings.  Also,  sir,  that  his  shirt 
Was  very  foul,  and  while  it  was  at  wash 
He  lay  i’  the  cobbler’s  old  blue  smock,  sir!” 


A COINER  OF  ANGELS 


295 


“Gods” 

The  voice  of  Raleigh  muttered  nigh  mine  ear, 

“I  had  a dirty  cloak  once  on  my  arm; 

But  a Queen’s  feet  had  trodden  it!  Drawer,  take 
Yon  pamphlet,  have  it  fried  in  cod-fish  oil 
And  bring  it  hither.  Bring  a candle,  too, 

And  sealing-wax!  Be  quick.  The  rogue  shall  eat  it, 
And  then  I’ll  seal  his  lips.” 

“No — not  to-night,” 

Kit  whispered,  laughing,  “I’ve  a prettier  plan 
For  Master  Bame.” 

“As  for  that  scrap  of  paper,” 
The  voice  of  Shakespeare  quietly  resumed, 

“ Why,  which  of  us  could  send  his  heart  and  soul 
Thro’  Caxton’s  printing-press  and  hope  to  find 
The  pretty  pair  unmangled.  I’ll  not  trust 
The  spoken  word,  no,  not  of  my  own  lips, 

Before  the  Judgment  Throne  against  myself 
Or  on  my  own  defence;  and  I’ll  not  trust 
The  printed  word  to  mirror  Robert  Greene. 

See — here’s  another  Testament,  in  blood, 

Written,  not  printed,  for  the  Mermaid  Inn. 

Rob  sent  it  from  his  death-bed  straight  to  me. 

Read  it.  ’Tis  for  the  Mermaid  Inn  alone; 

And  when  ’tis  read,  we’ll  burn  it,  as  he  asks.” 

Then,  from  the  hands  of  Shakespeare,  Marlowe  took 
A little  scroll,  and,  while  the  winds  without 
Rattled  the  shutters  with  their  ghostly  hands 
And  wailed  among  the  chimney-tops,  he  read: — 

Greeting  to  all  the  Mermaid  Inn 
From  their  old  Vice  and  Slip  of  Sin, 

Greeting,  Ben,  to  you,  and  you 

Will  Shakespeare  and  Kit  Marlowe,  too. 

Greeting  from  your  Might-have-been, 

Your  broken  sapling,  Robert  Greene. 

Read  my  letter — ’Tis  my  last, 

Then  let  Memory  blot  me  out, 

I would  not  make  my  maudlin  past 
A trough  for  every  swinish  snout. 


296 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


First,  I leave  a debt  unpaid, 

It’s  all  chalked  up,  not  much  all  told, 

For  Bread  and  Sack.  When  I am  cold, 

Doll  can  pawn  my  Spanish  blade 
And  pay  mine  host.  She’ll  pay  mine  host! 
But  ...  I have  chalked  up  other  scores 
In  your  own  hearts,  behind  the  doors. 

Not  to  be  paid  so  quickly.  Yet, 

0,  if  you  would  not  have  my  ghost 
Creeping  in  at  dead  of  night, 

Out  of  the  cold  wind,  out  of  the  wet, 

With  weeping  face  and  helpless  fingers 
Trying  to  wipe  the  marks  away, 

Read  what  I can  write,  still  write, 

While  this  life  within  them  lingers. 

Let  me  pay,  lads,  let  me  pay. 

Item,  for  a peacock  phrase, 

Flung  out  in  a sudden  blaze, 

Flung  out  at  his  friend  Shake-scene, 

By  this  ragged  Might-have-been, 

This  poor  Jackdaw,  Robert  Greene. 

Will,  I knew  it  all  the  while! 

And  you  know  it — and  you  smile] 

My  quill  was  but  a Jackdaw’s  feather, 

While  the  quill  that  Ben,  there,  wields, 
Fluttered  down  thro’  azure  fields, 

From  an  eagle  in  the  sun; 

And  yours,  Will,  yours,  no  earth-born  thing. 
A plume  of  rainbow-tinctured  grain, 

Dropt  out  of  an  angel’s  wing. 

Only  a Jackdaw’s  feather  mine, 

And  mine  ran  ink,  and  Ben’s  ran  wine, 

And  yours  the  pure  Pierian  streams. 

But  I had  dreams,  0,  I had  dreams! 
Dreams,  you  understand  me,  Will; 

And  I fretted  at  the  tether 
That  bound  me  to  the  lowly  plain, 

Gnawed  my  heart  out,  for  I knew 
Once,  tho’  that  was  long  ago. 


A COINER  OF  ANGELS 


297 


I might  have  risen  with  Ben  and  you 
Somewhere  near  that  Holy  Hill 
Whence  the  living  rivers  flow. 

Let  it  pass.  I did  not  know 
One  bitter  phrase  could  ever  fly 
So  far  through  that  immortal  sky 
— Seeing  all  my  songs  had  flown  so  low — 
One  envious  phrase  that  cannot  die 
From  century  to  century. 


Kit  Marlowe  ceased  a moment,  and  the  wind, 

As  if  indeed  the  night  were  all  one  ghost, 

Wailed  round  the  Mermaid  Inn,  then  sent  once  more 
Its  desolate  passion  through  the  reader’s  voice: — 

Some  truth  there  was  in  what  I said. 

Kit  Marlowe  taught  you  half  your  trade; 

And  something  of  the  rest  you  learned 
From  me, — but  all  you  took  you  earned. 

You  took  the  best  I had  to  give, 

You  took  my  clay  and  made  it  live; 

And  that — why  that’s  what  God  must  do! — 

My  music  made  for  mortal  ears 
You  flung  to  all  the  listening  spheres. 

You  took  my  dreams  and  made  them  true. 

And,  if  I claimed  them,  the  blank  air 
Might  claim  the  breath  I shape  to  prayer. 

I do  not  claim  it!  Let  the  earth 
Claim  the  thrones  she  brings  to  birth. 

Let  the  first  shapers  of  our  tongue 
Claim  whate’er  is  said  or  sung, 

Till  the  doom  repeal  that  debt 
And  cancel  the  first  alphabet. 

Yet  when,  like  a god,  you  scaled 
The  shining  crags  where  my  foot  failed; 

When  I saw  my  fruit  of  the  vine 
Foam  in  the  Olympian  cup, 

Or  in  that  broader  chalice  shine 
Blood-red,  a sacramental  drink, 

With  sta*s  for  bubbles,  lifted  up, 


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TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Through  the  universal  night, 

Up  to  the  celestial  brink, 

Up  to  that  quintessential  Light 
Where  God  acclaimed  you  for  the  wine 
Crushed  from  those  poor  grapes  of  mine; 
O,  you’ll  understand,  no  doubt, 

How  the  poor  vine-dresser  fell, 

How  a pin-prick  can  let  out 
All  the  bannered  hosts  of  hell, 

Nay,  a knife-thrust,  the  sharp  truth — 

I had  spilt  my  wine  of  youth, 

The  Temple  was  not  mine  to  build. 

My  place  in  the  world’s  march  was  filled. 

Yet — through  all  the  years  to  come — 

Men  to  whom  my  songs  are  dumb 
Will  remember  them  and  me 
For  that  one  cry  of  jealousy, 

That  curse  where  I had  come  to  bless, 
That  harsh  voice  of  unhappiness. 

They’ll  note  the  curse,  but  not  the  pang, 
Not  the  torment  whence  it  sprang, 

They’ll  note  the  blow  at  my  friend’s  backr 
But  not  the  soul  stretched  on  the  rack. 
They’ll  note  the  weak  convulsive  sting, 
Not  the  crushed  body  and  broken  wing. 

Item , for  my  thirty  years, 

Dashed  with  sun  and  splashed  with  tears,, 
Wan  with  revel,  red  with  wine, 

This  Jack-o-lanthorn  life  of  mine. 

Other  wiser,  happier  men, 

Take  the  full  three-score-and-ten, 

Climb  slow,  and  seek  the  sun. 

Dancing  down  is  soon  done. 

Golden  boys,  beware,  beware, — 

The  ambiguous  oracles  declare 
Loving  gods  for  those  that  die 
Young,  as  old  men  may;  but  I, 

Quick  as  was  my  pilgrimage, 

Wither  in  mine  April  age. 


A COINER  OF  ANGELS 


299 


Item,  one  groatsworth  of  wit, 

Bought  at  an  exceeding  price, 

Ay,  a million  of  repentance. 

Let  me  pay  the  whole  of  it. 

Lying  here  these  deadly  nights, 

Lads,  for  me  the  Mermaid  lights 
Gleam  as  for  a castaway 
Swept  along  a midnight  sea 
The  harbour-lan thorns,  each  a spark, 
A pin-prick  in  the  solid  dark, 

That  lets  trickle  through  a ray 
Glorious  out  of  Paradise, 

To  stab  him  with  new  agony. 

Let  me  pay,  lads,  let  me  pay! 

Let  the  Mermaid  pass  the  sentence: 

I am  pleading  guilty  now, 

A dead  leaf  on  the  laurel-bough, 

And  the  storm  whirls  me  away. 


Kit  Marlowe  ceased;  but  not  the  wailing  wind 
That  round  and  round  the  silent  Mermaid  Inn 
Wandered,  with  helpless  fingers  trying  the  doors, 
Like  a most  desolate  ghost. 

A sudden  throng 

Of  players  bustled  in,  shaking  the  rain 
From  their  plumed  hats.  “ Veracious  witnesses,” 
The  snuffle  of  Bame  arose  anew,  “ declare 
It  was  a surfeit  killed  him,  Rhenish  wine 
And  pickled  herrings.  His  shirt  was  very  foul. 

He  had  but  one.  His  doublet,  too,  was  frayed, 

And  his  boots  broken  ...” 

“What!  Gonzago,  you 
A short  fat  player  called  in  a deep  voice 
Across  the  room  and,  throwing  aside  his  cloak 
To  show  the  woman's  robe  he  wore  beneath, 

Minced  up  to  Bame  and  bellowed — “ 'Tis  such  men 
As  you  that  tempt  us  women  to  our  fall!” 

And  all  the  throng  of  players  rocked  and  roared, 

Till  at  a nod  and  wink  from  Kit  a hush 
Held  them  again. 


300 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


“Look  to  the  door,”  he  said, 

“Is  any  listening?”  The  young  player  crept, 

A mask  of  mystery,  to  the  door  and  peeped. 

“All’s  well!  The  coast  is  clear!” 

“Then  shall  we  tell 

Our  plan  to  Master  Bame?” 

Round  the  hushed  room 
W ent  Kit,  a pen  and  paper  in  his  hand, 

Whispering  each  to  read,  digest,  and  sign, 

While  Ben  re-filled  the  glass  of  Master  Bame. 

“'And  now,”  said  Kit  aloud,  “what  think  you,  lads? 

Shall  he  be  told?”  Solemnly  one  or  two 

’Gan  shake  their  heads  with  “Safety!  safety!  Kit!” 

“O,  Bame  can  keep  a secret!  Come,  we’ll  tell  him! 

He  can  advise  us  how  a righteous  man 
Should  act!  We’ll  let  him  share  an  he  approve. 

Now,  Master  Bame, — come  closer — my  good  friend, 

Ben  Jonson  here,  hath  lately  found  a way 
Of — hush!  Come  closer! — coining  money,  Bame.” 
“Coining!”  “Ay,  hush,  now!  Hearken!  A certain  sure 
And  indiscoverable  method,  sir! 

He  is  acquainted  with  one  Poole,  a felon 
Lately  released  from  Newgate,  hath  great  skill 
In  mixture  of  metals — hush ! — and,  by  the  help 
Of  a right  cunning  maker  of  stamps,  we  mean 
To  coin  French  crowns,  rose-nobles,  pistolettes, 

Angels  and  English  shillings.” 

For  one  breath 

Bame  stared  at  him  with  bulging  beetle-eyes, 

Then  murmured  shyly  as  a country  maid 
In  her  first  wooing,  “Is’t  not  against  the  law?” 

“Why,  sir,  who  makes  the  law?  Why  should  not  Bame 
Coin  his  own  crowns  like  Queen  Elizabeth? 

She  is  but  mortal!  And  consider,  too, 

The  good  works  it  should  prosper  in  your  hands, 

Without  regard  to  red-deer  pies  and  wine 
White  as  the  Milky  Way.  Such  secrets,  Bame, 

Were  not  good  for  the  general;  but  a few 
Discreet  and  righteous  palms,  your  own,  my  friend^ 

And  mine, — what  think  you?” 


A COINER  OF  ANGELS 


301 


With  a hesitant  glance 

Of  well-nigh  child-like  cunning,  screwing  his  eyes, 

Bame  laughed  a little  huskily  and  looked  round 

At  that  grave  ring  of  anxious  faces,  all 

Holding  their  breath  and  thrilling  his  blunt  nerves 

With  their  stage-practice.  “And  no  risk?”  breathed  Bame, 

“No  risk  at  all?”  “0,  sir,  no  risk  at  all! 

We  make  the  very  coins.  Besides,  that  part 
Touches  not  you.  Yours  is  the  honest  face, 

That’s  all  we  want.” 

“Why,  sir,  if  you  be  sure 
There  is  no  risk  . . . ” 

“You’ll  help  to  spend  it.  Good! 
We’ll  talk  anon  of  this,  and  you  shall  carry 
More  angels  in  your  pocket,  master  Bame, 

Than  e’er  you’ll  meet  in  heaven.  Set  hand  on  seal 
To  this  now,  master  Bame,  to  prove  your  faith. 

Come,  all  have  signed  it.  Here’s  the  quill,  dip,  write. 
Good!” 

And  Kit,  pocketing  the  paper,  bowed 
The  gull  to  the  inn-door,  saying  as  he  went, — 

“You  shall  hear  further  when  the  plan’s  complete. 

But  there’s  one  great  condition — not  one  word, 

One  breath  of  scandal  more  on  Robert  Greene. 

He’s  dead ; but  he  was  one  of  us.  The  day 
You  air  his  shirt,  I air  this  paper,  too.” 

No  gleam  of  understanding,  even  then, 

Illumed  that  long  white  face:  no  stage,  indeed, 

Has  known  such  acting  as  the  Mermaid  Inn 
That  night,  and  Bame  but  sniggered,  “Why,  of  course, 
There’s  good  in  all  men;  and  the  best  of  us 
Will  make  mistakes.” 

“But  no  mistakes  in  this,” 

Said  Kit,  “or  all  together  we  shall  swing 
At  Tyburn — who  knows  what  may  leap  to  light? — 

You  understand?  No  scandal!”  “Not  a breath!” 

So,  in  dead  silence,  Master  Richard  Bame 
Went  out  into  the  darkness  and  the  night, 

To  ask,  as  I have  heard,  for  many  a moon, 

The  price  of  malmsey-butts  and  silken  hose, 

And  doublets  slashed  with  satin. 


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TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


As  the  door 

Slammed  on  his  back,  the  pent-up  laughter  burst 
With  echo  and  re-echo  round  the  room, 

But  ceased  as  Will  tossed  on  the  glowing  hearth 
The  last  poor  Testament  of  Robert  Greene. 

All  watched  it  burn.  The  black  wind  wailed  and  moaned 
Around  the  Mermaid  as  the  sparks  flew  up. 

“God,  what  a night  for  ships  upon  the  sea,” 

Said  Raleigh,  peering  through  the  wet  black  panes, 

“Well — we  may  thank  Him  for  the  Little  Red  Ring!” 

“ The  Little  Red  Ring”  cried  Kit,  “the  Little  Red  Ring!” 
Then  up  stood  Dekker  on  the  old  black  settle. 

“Give  it  a thumping  chorus,  lads,”  he  called, 

And  sang  this  brave  song  of  the  Mermaid  Inn: — 


i 

Seven  wise  men  on  an  old  black  settle, 

Seven  wise  men  of  the  Mermaid  Inn, 
Ringing  blades  of  the  one  right  metal, 

What  is  the  best  that  a blade  can  win? 
Bread  and  cheese,  and  a few  small  kisses? 

Ha!  ha!  ha!  Would  you  take  them — you? 
— Ay,  if  Dame  V enus  would  add  to  her  blisses 
A roaring  fire  and  a friend  or  two! 

Chorus'  Up  now,  answer  me,  tell  me  true! — 

— Ay,  if  the  hussy  would  add  to  her  blisses 
A roaring  fire  and  a friend  or  two! 


ii 

What  will  you  say  when  the  world  is  dying? 

What,  when  the  last  wild  midnight  falls 
Dark,  too  dark  for  the  bat  to  be  flying 
Round  the  ruins  of  old  St.  Paul's? 

What  wall  be  last  of  the  lights  to  perish? 

What  but  the  little  red  ring  we  knew, 
Lighting  the  hands  and  the  hearts  that  cherish 
A fire,  a fire,  and  a friend  or  two! 


BLACK  BILL’S  HONEY-MOON 


303 


Chorus:  Up  now,  answer  me,  tell  me  true! 

What  will  be  last  of  the  stars  to  perish? 

— The  fire  that  lighteth  a friend  or  two! 

in 

Up  now,  answer  me,  on  your  mettle 
Wisest  man  of  the  Mermaid  Inn, 

Soberest  man  on  the  old  black  settle, 

Out  with  the  truth!  It  was  never  a sin. — 
Well,  if  God  saved  me  alone  of  the  seven, 
Telling  me  you  must  be  damned,  or  you , 
“This,”  I would  say,  “This  is  hell,  not  heaven! 
Give  me  the  fire  and  a friend  or  two!” 

Chorus:  Steel  was  never  so  ringing  true: 

“God,”  we  would  say,  “this  is  hell,  not  heaven! 
Give  us  the  fire,  and  a friend  or  two!” 


Ill 

BLACK  BILL’S  HONEY-MOON 

The  garlands  of  a Whitsun  ale  were  strewn 
About  our  rushes,  the  night  that  Raleigh  brought 
Bacon  to  sup  with  us.  There,  on  that  night, 

I saw  the  singer  of  the  Faerie  Queen 
Quietly  spreading  out  his  latest  cantos 
For  Shakespeare’s  eye,  like  white  sheets  in  the  sun. 
Marlowe,  our  morning-star,  and  Michael  Drayton 
Talked  in  that  ingle-nook.  And  Ben  was  there, 
Humming  a song  upon  that  old  black  settle: 

“Or  leave  a kiss  but  in  the  cup 
And  I’ll  not  ask  for  wine.” 

But,  meanwhile,  he  drank  malmsey. 

Francis  Bacon 

Straddled  before  the  fire;  and,  all  at  once, 

He  said  to  Shakespeare,  in  a voice  that  gripped 
The  Mermaid  Tavern  like  an  arctic  frost: 


304 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


“ There  are  no  'poets  in  this  age  of  oursy 
Not  to  compare  with  Plautus.  They  are  all 
Dead , the  men  that  were  famous  in  old  days.” 

“Why — so  they  are,”  said  Will.  The  humming  stopped. 

I saw  poor  Spenser,  a shy  gentle  soul, 

With  haunted  eyes  like  starlit  forest  pools, 

Smuggling  his  cantos  under  his  cloak  again. 

“There’s  verse  enough,  no  doubt,”  Bacon  went  on, 

“But  English  is  no  language  for  the  Muse. 

Whom  would  you  call  our  best?  There’s  Gabriel  Harvey, 
And  Edward,  Earl  of  Oxford.  Then  there’s  Dyer, 

And  Doctor  Golding;  while,  for  tragedy, 

Thomas,  Lord  Buckhurst,  hath  a lofty  vein. 

And,  in  a lighter  prettier  vein,  why,  Will, 

There  is  thyself!  But — where’s  Euripides?” 

“Dead,”  echoed  Ben,  in  a deep  ghost-like  voice. 

And  drip — drip — drip — outside  we  heard  the  rain 
Miserably  dropping  round  the  Mermaid  Inn. 

“Thy  Summer’s  Night — eh,  Will?  Midsummer’s  Night? — 
That’s  a quaint  fancy,”  Bacon  droned  anew, 

“But — Athens  was  an  error,  Will!  Not  Athens! 

Titania  knew  not  Athens!  Those  wild  elves 

Of  thy  Midsummer’s  Dream — eh?  Midnight’s  Dream? — 

Are  English  all.  Thy  woods,  too,  smack  of  England; 

They  never  grew  round  Athens.  Bottom,  too, 

He  is  not  Greek!” 

“Greek?”  Will  said,  with  a chuckle, 
“Bottom  a Greek?  Why,  no,  he  was  the  son 
Of  Marian  Hacket,  the  fat  wife  that  kept 
An  ale-house,  Wincot-way.  I lodged  with  her 
Walking  from  Stratford.  You  have  never  tramped 
Along  that  countryside?  By  Burton  Heath? 

Ah,  well,  you  would  not  know  my  fairylands. 

It  warms  my  blood  to  let  my  home-spuns  play 
Around  your  cold  white  Athens.  There’s  a joy 
In  jumping  time  and  space.” 

But,  as  he  took 

The  cup  of  sack  I proffered,  solemnly 

The  lawyer  shook  his  head.  “Will,  couldst  thou  use 


BLACK  BILL’S  HONEY-MOON 


305 


Thy  talents  with  discretion,  and  obey 

Classic  examples,  those  mightst  match  old  Plautus, 

In  all  except  priority  of  the  tongue. 

This  English  tongue  is  only  for  an  age, 

But  Latin  for  all  time.  So  I propose 
To  embalm  in  Latin  my  philosophies. 

Well  seize  your  hour!  But,  ere  you  die,  you’ll  sail 
A British  galleon  to  the  golden  courts 
Of  Cleopatra/’ 

“Sail  it!”  Marlowe  roared, 

Mimicking  in  a fit  of  thunderous  glee 
The  drums  and  trumpets  of  his  Tamburlaine: 

“And  let  her  buccaneers  bestride  the  sphinx, 

And  play  at  bowls  with  Pharaoh’s  pyramids, 

And  hale  white  Egypt  with  their  tarry  hands 

Home  to  the  Mermaid!  Lift  the  good  old  song 

That  Rob  Greene  loved.  Gods,  how  the  lad  would  shout  it! 

Stand  up  and  sing,  John  Davis!” 

“Up!”  called  Raleigh, 

“Lift  the  chanty  of  Black  Bill’s  Honey-moon,  Jack! 

We’ll  keep  the  chorus  going!” 

“Silence,  all!” 

Ben  Jonson  echoed,  rolling  on  his  bench: 

“This  gentle  lawyer  hath  a longing,  lads, 

To  hear  a right  Homeric  hymn.  Now,  Jack! 

But  wet  your  whistle,  first!  A cup  of  sack 
For  the  first  canto!  Muscadel,  the  next! 

Canary  for  the  last!”  I brought  the  cup. 

John  Davis  emptied  it  at  one  mighty  draught, 

Leapt  on  a table,  stamped  with  either  foot, 

And  straight  began  to  troll  this  mad  sea-tale : 

CANTO  THE  FIRST 

Let  Martin  Parker  at  hawthorn-tide 
Prattle  in  Devonshire  lanes, 

Let  all  his  pedlar  poets  beside 
Rattle  their  gallows-chains, 

A tale  like  mine  they  never  shall  tell 
Or  a merrier  ballad  sing, 

Till  the  Man  in  the  Moon  pipe  up  the  tune 
And  the  stars  play  Kiss-in-the-Ring! 

20 


306 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Chorus:  Till  Philip  of  Spain  in  England  reign, 

And  the  stars  play  Kiss-in-the-Ring! 

All  in  the  gorgeous  dawn  of  day 
From  grey  old  Plymouth  Sound 
Our  galleon  crashed  thro*  the  crimson  spray 
To  sail  the  world  around: 

Cloud  i’  the  Sun  was  her  white-scrolled  name,— * 
There  was  never  a lovelier  lass 
For  sailing  in  state  after  pieces  of  eight 
With  her  bombards  all  of  brass. 

Chorus:  Culverins,  robinets,  iron  may-be; 

But  her  bombards  all  of  brass! 

Now,  they  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships, 
Though  piracy  be  their  trade, 

For  all  that  they  pray  not  much  with  their  lips 
They  know  where  the  storms  are  made: 

With  the  stars  above  and  the  sharks  below, 
They  need  not  parson  or  clerk; 

But  our  bo’sun  Bill  was  an  atheist  still, 

Except — sometimes — in  the  dark! 

Chorus:  Now  let  Kit  Marlowe  mark! 

Our  bo’sun  Bill  was  an  atheist  still, 

Except — sometimes — in  the  dark! 

All  we  adventured  for,  who  shall  say, 

Nor  yet  what  our  port  might  be? — 

A magical  city  of  old  Cathay, 

Or  a castle  of  Muscovy, 

With  our  atheist  bo’sun,  Bill,  Black  Bill, 

Under  the  swinging  Bear, 

Whistling  at  night  for  a seaman  to  light 
His  little  poop-lanthorns  there. 

On  the  deep,  in  the  night,  for  a seaman  to  light 
His  little  lost  lanthorns  there. 


Chorus: 


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But,  as  over  the  Ocean-sea  we  swept, 

We  chanced  on  a strange  new  land 
Where  a valley  of  tall  white  lilies  slept 
With  a forest  on  either  hand; 

A valley  of  white  in  a purple  wood 
And,  behind  it,  faint  and  far, 

Breathless  and  bright  o’er  the  last  rich  height. 
Floated  the  sunset-star. 

Chorus:  Fair  and  bright  o’er  the  rose-red  height, 

Venus,  the  sunset-star. 

’Twas  a marvel  to  see,  as  we  beached  our  boat, 
Black  Bill,  in  that  peach-bloom  air, 

With  the  great  white  lilies  that  reached  to  his  throat 
Like  a stained-glass  bo’sun  there, 

And  our  little  ship’s  chaplain,  puffing  and  red, 
A-starn  as  we  onward  stole, 

With  the  disk  of  a lily  behind  his  head 
Like  a cherubin’s  aureole. 

Chorus:  He  was  round  and  red  and  behind  his  head 

He’d  a cherubin’s  aureole. 

“Hyrcania,  land  of  honey  and  bees, 

We  have  found  thee  at  last,”  he  said, 

“Where  the  honey-comb  swells  in  the  hollow  trees,” 
(0,  the  lily  behind  his  head!) 

“The  honey-comb  swells  in  the  purple  wood? 

’Tis  the  swette  which  the  heavens  distil, 

Saith  Pliny  himself,  on  my  little  book-shelf! 

Is  the  world  not  sweet  to  thee,  Bill?” 

0 'horus:  “Saith  Pliny  himself,  on  my  little  book-shelf! 

Is  the  world  not  sweet  to  thee,  Bill?” 

Now  a man  may  taste  of  the  devil’s  hot  spice, 

And  yet  if  his  mind  run  back 
To  the  honey  of  childhood’s  Paradise 
His  heart  is  not  wholly  black ; 


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TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


And  Bill,  Black  Bill,  from  the  days  of  his  youth 
Tho’  his  chest  was  broad  as  an  oak, 

Had  cherished  one  innocent  little  sweet  tooth, 
And  it  itched  as  our  chaplain  spoke. 

Chorus:  He  had  kept  one  perilous  little  tooth, 

And  it  itched  as  our  chaplain  spoke. 

All  around  was  a mutter  of  bees, 

And  Bill  *gan  muttering  too, — 

“If  the  honey-comb  swells  in  the  hollow  trees, 
(What  else  can  a Didymus  do?) 

Ill  steer  to  the  purple  woods  myself 
And  see  if  this  thing  be  so, 

Which  the  chaplain  found  on  his  little  book-shelf. 
For  Pliny  lived  long  ago.” 

Chorus:  There’s  a platter  of  delf  on  his  little  book-shelf  , 

And  Pliny  lived  long  ago. 

Scarce  had  he  spoken  when,  out  of  the  wood, 

And  buffeting  all  around, 

Rooting  our  sea-boots  where  we  stood, 

There  rumbled  a marvellous  sound, 

As  a mountain  of  honey  were  crumbling  asunder. 
Or  a sunset-avalanche  hurled 
Honey-comb  boulders  of  golden  thunder 
To  smother  the  old  black  world. 

Chorus : Honey-comb  boulders  of  musical  thunder 

To  mellow  this  old  black  world. 

And  the  chaplain  he  whispered — “This  honey, 
one  saith, 

On  my  camphired  cabin-shelf, 

None  may  harvest  on  pain  of  death; 

For  the  bee  would  eat  it  himself! 

None  walketh  those  woods  but  him  whose  voice 
In  the  dingles  you  then  did  hear!” 

“A  Voice?”  growls  Bill.  “Ay,  Bill,  r-r-rejoice! 
’Twas  the  great  Hyrcanian  Bear!” 


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30f 


Chorus:  Give  thanks!  ifc-joice!  'Twas  the  glor-r-r-ious 

Voice 

Of  the  great  Hyrcanian  Bear! 

But,  marking  that  Bill  looked  bitter  indeed, 

For  his  sweet  tooth  hungered  sore, 

“ Consider,”  he  saith,  “that  the  Sweet  hath  need 
Of  the  Sour,  as  the  Sea  of  the  Shore! 

As  the  night  to  the  day  is  our  grief  to  our  joy, 

And  each  for  its  brother  prepares 
A banquet,  Bill,  that  would  otherwise  cloy. 

Thus  is  it  with  honey  and  bears.” 

Chorus:  Roses  and  honey  and  laughter  would  cloy! 

Give  us  thorns,  too,  and  sorrow  and  bears! 

“Consider,”  he  saith,  “how  by  fretting  a string 
The  lutanist  maketh  sweet  moan, 

And  a bird  ere  it  fly  must  have  air  for  its  wing 
To  buffet  or  fall  like  a stone: 

Tho’  you  blacken  like  Pluto  you  make  but  more  whiti 
These  blooms  which  not  Enna  could  yield ! 
Consider,  Black  Bill,  ere  the  coming  of  night, 

The  lilies, 77  he  saith,  “of  the  field.” 

Chorus:  “Consider,  Black  Bill,  in  this  beautiful  light, 

The  lilies,”  he  saith,  “of  the  field.” 

“Consider  the  claws  of  a Bear,”  said  Bill, 

“That  can  rip  off  the  flesh  from  your  bones, 
While  his  belly  could  cabin  the  skipper  and  still 
Accommodate  Timothy  Jones! 

Why,  that’s  wdiere  a seaman  who  cares  for  his  grog 
Perspires  how  this  world  isn’t  square! 

If  there’s  cause  for  a cow , if  there’s  use  for  a doo? 

By  Pope  John,  there’s  no  Sense  in  a Bear!” 

Cause  for  a cow,  use  for  a dog, 

By’r  Lakin,  no  Sense  in  a Bear! 


Chorus: 


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TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


But  our  little  ship’s  chaplain — “Sense,”  quoth  he, 
“Hath  the  Bear  tho’  his  making  have  none; 
For,  my  little  book  saith,  by  the  sting  of  this  bee 
Would  Ursus  be  wholly  foredone, 

But,  or  ever  the  hive  he  adventureth  nigh 
And  its  crisp  gold-crusted  dome, 

He  lardeth  his  nose  and  he  greaseth  his  eye 
With  a piece  of  an  honey-comb.” 

Chorus:  His  velvety  nose  and  his  sensitive  eye 

With  a piece  of  an  honey-comb. 

Black  Bill  at  the  word  of  that  golden  crust 
— For  his  ears  had  forgotten  the  roar, 

And  his  eyes  grew  soft  with  their  innocent  lust — 
’Gan  licking  his  lips  once  more: 

“ Be  it  bound  like  a missal  and  printed  as  fair, 
With  capitals  blue  and  red, 

’Tis  a lie;  for  what  honey  could  comfort  a bear, 
Till  the  bear  win  the  honey?”  he  said. 

Chary#:  “ Ay,  whence  the  first  honey  wherewith  the  first  bear 

First  larded  his  nose?”  he  said. 

“Thou  first  metaphysical  bo’sun,  Bill,” 

Our  chaplain  quizzingly  cried, 

“ Wilt  thou  riddle  me  redes  of  a dumpling  still 
With  thy  ‘how  came  the  apple  inside’?” 

“Nay,”  answered  Bill,  “but  I quest  for  truth, 
And  I find  it  not  on  your  shelf! 

I will  face  your  Hyrcanian  bear,  forsooth, 

And  look  at  his  nose  n^self.” 

Choru #:  For  truth,  for  truth,  or  a little  sweet  tooth — 

I will  into  the  woods  myself. 

Breast-high  thro’  that  foam-white  ocean  of  bloom 
With  its  wonderful  spokes  of  gold, 

Our  sun-burnt  crew  in  the  rose-red  gloom 
Like  buccaneer  galleons  rolled: 


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311 


Breast-high,  breast-high  in  the  lilies  we  stood, 

And  before  we  could  say  “good-night," 

Out  of  the  valley  and  into  the  wood 
He  plunged  thro’  the  last  rich  light. 

Chorus:  Out  of  the  lilies  and  into  the  wood, 

Where  the  Great  Bear  walks  all  night! 

And  our  little  ship's  chaplain  he  piped  thro'  the  trees 
As  the  moon  rose,  white  and  still, 

“Hylas,  return  to  thy  Heracles!" 

And  we  helped  him  with  “Come  back,  Bill!" 
Thrice  he  piped  it,  thrice  we  halloo'd, 

And  thrice  we  were  dumb  to  hark; 

But  never  an  answer  came  from  the  wood, 

So — we  turned  to  our  ship  in  the  dark. 

Chorus:  Good-bye,  Bill!  you're  a Didymus  still; 

But — you're  all  alone  in  the  dark. 

“This  honey  now" — as  the  first  canto  ceased, 

The  great  young  Bacon  pompously  began — 

“ Which  Pliny  ealleth,  as  it  were,  the  swette 
Of  heaven,  or  spettle  of  the  stars,  is  found 
In  Muscovy.  Now  ..."  “Bring  the  muscadel," 

Ben  Jonson  roared — “'Tis  a more  purple  drink, 

And  suits  with  the  next  canto!" 

At  one  draught 

John  Davis  drained  the  cup,  and  with  one  hand 
Beating  the  measure,  rapidly  trolled  again. 

CANTO  THE  SECOND 

Now,  Rabelais,  art  thou  quite  foredune, 

Dan  Chaucer,  Drayton,  Every  One! 

Leave  we  aboard  our  Cloud  iy  the  Sun 
This  crew  of  pirates  dreaming — 

Of  Angels,  minted  in  the  blue 
Like  golden  moons,  Rose-nobles,  too. 

As  under  the  silver-sliding  dew 
Our  emerald  creek  lay  gleaming! 

Chorus : Under  the  stars  lay  gleaming! 


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TALES  OF  THE  . MERMAID  TAVERN 


And  mailed  with  scales  of  gold  and  green 
The  high  star-lilied  banks  between, 

Nosing  our  old  black  hulk  unseen, 

Great  alligators  shimmered: 

Blood-red  jaws  i’  the  blue-black  oo«e, 
Where  all  the  long  warm  day  they  snooze. 
Chewing  old  cuds  of  pirate-crews, 

Around  us  grimly  glimmered. 

Chorus:  Their  eyes  like  rubies  glimmered. 

Let  us  now  sing  of  Bill,  good  sirs ! 

Follow  him,  all  green  foresteres, 

Fearless  of  Hyrcanian  bears 
As  of  these  ghostly  lilies! 

For  0,  not  Drayton  there  could  sing 
Of  wild  Pigwiggen  and  his  King 
So  merry  a jest,  so  jolly  a thing 
As  this  my  tale  of  Bill  is. 

Chorus:  Into  the  woods  where  Bill  is! 

Now  starts  he  as  a white  owl  hoots, 

And  now  he  stumbles  over  roots, 

And  now  beneath  his  big  sea-boots 
In  yon  deep  glade  he  crunches 
Black  cakes  of  honey-comb  that  were 
So  elfin-sweet,  perchance,  last  year; 

But  neither  Bo’sun,  now,  nor  Bear 
At  that  dark  banquet  munches. 

Chorus:  Onward  still  he  crunches! 

Black  cakes  of  honey-comb  he  sees 
Above  him  in  the  forks  of  trees, 

Filled  by  stars  instead  of  bees, 

With  brimming  silver  glisten : 

But  ah,  such  food  of  gnome  and  fay 
Could  neither  Bear  nor  Bill  delay 
Till  where  yon  ferns  and  moonbeams  play 
He  starts  and  stands  to  listen ! 


Chorus: 


What  melody  doth  he  listen? 


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313 


Is  it  the  Night- Wind  as  it  comes 
Through  the  wood  and  softly  thrums 
Silvery  tabors,  purple  drums, 

To  speed  some  wild- wood  revel? 

Nay,  Didymus,  what  faint  sweet  din 
Of  viol  and  flute  and  violin 
Makes  all  the  forest  round  thee  spin, 
The  Night-Wind  or  the  Devil? 

Chorus:  No  doubt  at  all — the  Devil! 

He  stares,  with  naked  knife  in  hand, 
This  buccaneer  in  fairyland ! 

Dancing  in  a saraband 

The  red  ferns  reel  about  him! 
Dancing  in  a morrice-ring 
The  green  ferns  curtsey,  kiss  and  cling! 
Their  Marians  flirt,  their  Robins  fling 
Their  feathery  heels  to  flout  him! 

Chorus:  The  whole  wood  reels  about  him. 

Dance,  ye  shadows!  O’er  the  glade, 
Bill,  the  Bo’sun,  undismayed, 
Pigeon-toes  with  glittering  blade! 

Drake  was  never  bolder! 

Devil  or  Spaniard,  what  cares  he 
Whence  your  eerie  music  be? 

Till — lo,  against  yon  old  oak-tree 
He  leans  his  brawny  shoulder! 

Chorus:  He  lists  and  leans  his  shoulder ! 

Ah,  what  melody  doth  he  hear 
As  to  that  gnarled  old  tree-trunk  there 
He  lays  his  wind-bit  brass-ringed  ear, 
And  steals  his  arm  about  it? 

What  Dryad  could  this  Bo’sun  win 
To  that  slow-rippling  amorous  grin? — 
’Twas  full  of  singing  bees  within! 

Not  Didymus  could  doubt  it! 

Chorus:  So  loud  they  buzzed  about  it! 


314 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Straight,  o'er  a bough  one  leg  he  throws, 

And  up  that  oaken  main-mast  goes 
With  reckless  red  unlarded  nose 
And  gooseberry  eyes  of  wonder! 

Till  now,  as  in  a galleon's  hold, 

Below,  he  sees  great  cells  of  gold 
Whence  all  the  hollow  trunk  up-rolled 
A low  melodious  thunder. 

Chorus:  A sweet  and  perilous  thunder! 

Ay,  there,  within  that  hollow  tree, 

Will  Shakespeare,  mightst  thou  truly  see 
The  Imperial  City  of  the  Bee, 

In  Chrysomelan  splendour! 

And,  in  the  midst,  one  eight-foot  dome 
Swells  o'er  that  Titan  honey-comb 
Where  the  Bee-Empress  hath  her  home, 

With  such  as  do  attend  her. 

Chorus:  Weaponed  with  stings  attend  her! 

But  now  her  singing  sentinels 
Have  turned  to  sleep  in  waxen  cells, 

And  Bill  leans  down  his  face  and  smells 
The  whole  sweet  summer's  cargo — 

In  one  deep  breath,  the  whole  year's  bloom 
Lily  and  thyme  and  rose  and  broom, 

One  Golden  Fleece  of  flower-perfume 
In  that  old  oaken  Argo. 

Chorus:  That  green  and  golden  Argo! 

And  now  he  hangs  with  dangling  feet 
Over  that  dark  abyss  of  sweet, 

Striving  to  reach  such  wild  gold  meat 
As  none  could  buy  for  money : 

His  left  hand  grips  a swinging  branch 
When — crack!  Our  Bo'sun,  stout  and  stanch. 
Falls  like  an  Alpine  avalanche, 

Feet  first  into  the  honey! 


Chorus:  Up  to  his  ears  in  honey  ! 


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And  now  his  red  unlarded  nose 
And  bulging  eyes  are  all  that  shows 
Above  it,  as  he  puffs  and  blows! 

And  now — to  'scape  the  scathing 
Of  that  black  host  of  furious  bees 
His  nose  and  eyes  he  fain  would  grease 
And  bobs  below  those  golden  seas 
Like  an  old  woman  bathing. 

Chorus:  Old  Mother  Hubbard  bathing! 

And  now  he  struggles,  all  in  vain, 

To  reach  some  little  bough  again; 

But,  though  he  heaves  with  might  and  main, 
This  honey  holds  his  ribs,  sirs, 

So  tight,  a barque  might  sooner  try 
To  steer  a cargo  through  the  sky 
Than  Bill,  thus  honey-logged,  to  fly 
By  flopping  of  his  jib,  sirs! 

Chorus:  His  tops'l  and  his  jib,  sirs! 

Like  Oberon  in  the  hive  his  beard 
With  wax  and  honey  all  besmeared 
Would  make  the  crescent  moon  afeard 
That  now  is  sailing  brightly 
Right  o'er  his  leafy  donjon-keep! 

But  that  she  knows  him  sunken  deep, 

And  that  his  tower  is  straight  and  steep, 

She  would  not  smile  so  lightly. 

Chorus:  Look  down  and  smile  so  lightly. 

She  smiles  in  that  small  heavenly  space, 
Ringed  with  the  tree-trunk's  leafy  grace, 
While  upward  grins  his  ghastly  face 
As  if  some  wild- wood  Satyr, 

Some  gnomish  Ptolemy  should  dare 
Up  that  dark  optic  tube  to  stare, 

As  all  unveiled  she  floated  there, 

Poor  maiden  moon,  straight  at  her! 

Chorus:  The  buccaneering  Satyr ! 


316 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


But  there,  till  some  one  help  him  out, 

Black  Bill  must  stay,  without  a doubt. 
“Help!  Help!”  he  gives  a muffled  shout f 
None  but  the  white  owls  hear  it! 

Who?  Whoo ? they  cry:  Bill  answers  “Me! 
I am  stuck  fast  in  this  great  tree! 

Bring  me  a rope , good  Timothy! 

There7  s honey , lads , we’ll  share  it!” 

Chorus:  Ay,  now  he  wants  to  share  it. 

Then,  thinking  help  may  come  with  morn, 
He  sinks,  half-famished  and  out-worn, 

And  scarce  his  nose  exalts  its  horn 
Above  that  sea  of  glory! 

But,  even  as  he  owns  defeat, 

His  belly  saith,  “A  man  must  eat, 

And  since  there  is  none  other  meat, 

Come,  lap  this  mess  before  'ee!” 

Chorus:  This  glorious  mess  before  'ee. 

Then  Dian  sees  a right  strange  sight 
As,  bidding  him  a fond  good-night, 

She  flings  a silvery  kiss  to  light 
In  that  deep  oak-tree  hollow, 

And  finds  that  gold  and  crimson  nose 
A moving,  munching,  ravenous  rose 
That  up  and  down  unceasing  goes, 

Save  when  he  stops  to  swallow! 

Chorus:  He  finds  it  hard  to  swallow! 

Ay,  now  his  best  becomes  his  worst, 

For  honey  cannot  quench  his  thirst, 

Though  he  should  eat  until  he  burst; 

But,  ah,  the  skies  are  kindly, 

And  from  their  tender  depths  of  blue 
They  send  their  silver-sliding  dew. 

So  Bill  thrusts  out  his  tongue  anew 
And  waits  to  catch  it — blindly! 

Chorus:  For  ah,  the  stars  are  kindly! 


BLACK  BILL’S  HONEY-MOON 


317 


And  sometimes,  with  a shower  of  rain, 

They  strive  to  ease  their  prisoner’s  pain: 

Then  Bill  thrusts  out  his  tongue  again 
With  never  a grace,  the  sinner! 

And  day  and  night  and  day  goes  by, 

And  never  a comrade  comes  anigh, 

And  still  the  honey  swells  as  high 
For  supper,  breakfast,  dinner! 

Chorus:  Yet  Bill  has  grown  no  thinner! 

The  young  moon  grows  to  full  and  throws 
Her  buxom  kiss  upon  his  nose, 

As  nightly  over  the  tree  she  goes, 

And  peeps  and  smiles  and  passes, 

Then  with  her  fickle  silver  flecks 
Our  old  black  galleon’s  dreaming  decks; 

And  then  her  face,  with  nods  and  becks, 

In  midmost  ocean  glasses. 

Chorus:  ’Twas  ever  the  way  with  lasses! 

Ah,  Didymus,  hast  thou  won  indeed 
That  Paradise  which  is  thy  meed? 

(Thy  tale  not  all  that  run  may  read!) 

Thy  sweet  hath  now  no  leaven ! 

Now,  like  an  onion  in  a cup 
Of  mead,  thou  liest  for  Jove  to  sup, 

Could  Polyphemus  lift  thee  up 
With  Titan  hands  to  heaven ! 

Chorus:  This  great  oak-cup  to  heaven! 

The  second  canto  ceased;  and,  as  they  raised 
Their  wine-cups  with  the  last  triumphant  note, 

Bacon,  undaunted,  raised  his  grating  voice — 

“ This  honey  which,  in  some  sort,  may  be  styled 
The  Spettle  of  the  Stars  ...”  “ Bring  the  Canary  VI 

Ben  Jonson  roared.  “It  is  a moral  wine 
And  suits  the  third,  last  canto!”  At  one  draught 
John  Davis  drained  it  and  began  anew. 


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CANTO  THE  THIRD 

A month  went  by.  We  were  hoisting  sail! 

We  had  lost  all  hope  of  Bill; 

Though,  laugh  as  you  may  at  a seaman's  tale, 

He  was  fast  in  his  honey-comb  still! 

And  often  he  thinks  of  the  chaplain's  word 
In  the  days  he  shall  see  no  more, — 

How  the  Sweet,  indeed,  of  the  Sour  hath  need; 
And  the  Sea,  likewise,  of  the  Shore. 

Chorus:  The  chaplain's  word  of  the  Air  and  a Bird; 

Of  the  Sea,  likewise,  and  the  Shore! 

“0,  had  I the  wings  of  a dove,  I would  fly 
To  a heaven,  of  aloes  and  gall! 

I have  honeyed,"  he  yammers,  “my  nose  and  mine 
eye, 

And  the  bees  cannot  sting  me  at  all! 

And  it's  0,  for  the  sting  of  a little  brown  bee, 

Or  to  blister  my  hands  on  a rope, 

Or  to  buffet  a thundering  broad-side  sea 
On  a deck  like  a mountain-slope!" 

Chorus : With  her  mast  snapt  short,  and  a list  to  port 

And  a deck  like  a mountain-slope. 

But  alas,  and  he  thinks  of  the  chaplain's  voice 
When  that  roar  from  the  woods  out-break — 
R-r-re-joice ! R-r-re-joice ! “Now',  wherefore  rejoice 
In  the  music  a bear  could  make? 

'Tis  a judgment,  maybe,  that  I stick  in  this  tree; 

Yet  in  this  I out-argued  him  fair! 

Though  I live,  though  I die,  in  this  honey-comb  pie, 
By  Pope  Joan,  there's  no  sense  in  a bear!" 

Chorus:  Notes  in  a nightingale,  plums  in  a pie, 

By’r  Lakin,  no  Sense  in  a Bear! 

He  knew  not  our  anchor  was  heaved  from  the  mud: 
He  was  growling  it  over  again, 

When — a strange  sound  suddenly  froze  his  blood, 
And  curdled  his  big  slow  brain ! — 


BLACK  BILL’S  HONEY-MOON 


319 


A marvellous  sound,  as  of  great  steel  claws 
Gripping  the  bark  of  his  tree, 

Softly  ascended!  Like  lightning  ended 
His  honey-comb  reverie! 

Chorus : The  honey-comb  quivered!  The  little  leaves 

shivered ! 

Something  was  climbing  the  tree ! 

Something  that  breathed  like  a fat  sea-cook, 

Or  a pirate  of  fourteen  ton! 

But  it  clomb  like  a cat  (tho’  the  whole  tree  shook) 
Stealthily  towards  the  sun, 

Till,  as  Black  Bill  gapes  at  the  little  blue  ring 
Overhead,  which  he  calls  the  sky, 

It  is  clean  blotted  out  by  a monstrous  Thing 
Which — hath  larded  its  nose  and  its  eye. 

Chorus:  0,  well  for  thee,  Bill,  that  this  monstrous  Thing 

Hath  blinkered  its  little  red  eye. 

Still  as  a mouse  lies  Bill  with  his  face 
Low  down  in  the  dark  sweet  gold, 

While  this  monster  turns  round  in  the  leaf-fringed 
space! 

Then — taking  a good  firm  hold, 

As  the  skipper  descending  the  cabin-stair, 

Tail-first  with  a vast  slow  tread, 

Solemnly,  softly,  cometh  this  Bear 
Straight  down  o’er  the  Bo’sun’s  head. 

Chorus:  Solemnly — slowly — cometh  this  Bear, 

Tail-first  o’er  the  Bo’sun’s  head. 

Nearer — nearer — then  all  Bill’s  breath 
Out-bursts  in  one  leap  and  yell ! 

And  this  Bear  thinks,  “Now  am  I gripped  from 
beneath 

By  a roaring  devil  from  hell!” 

And  madly  Bill  clutches  his  brown  bow-legs, 

And  madly  this  Bear  doth  hale, 

With  his  little  red  eyes  fear-mad  for  the  skies 
And  Bill’s  teeth  fast  in  his  tail! 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


320 

Chorus:  Small  wonder  a Bear  should  quail! 

To  have  larded  his  nose,  to  have  greased  his  eyes, 
And  be  stung  at  the  last  in  his  tail. 

Pull,  Bo’sun!  Pull,  Bear!  In  the  hot  sweet  gloom. 
Pull  Bruin,  pull  Bill,  for  the  skies! 

Pull — out  of  their  gold  with  a bombard’s  boom 
Come  Black  Bill’s  honeyed  thighs! 

Pull!  Up!  Up!  Up!  with  a scuffle  and  scramble, 

To  that  little  blue  ring  of  bliss, 

This  Bear  doth  go  with  our  Bo’sun  in  tow 
Stinging  his  tail,  I wis. 

C tun  us:  And  this  Bear  thinks — “Many  great  bees  I know* 

But  there  never  was  Bee  like  this!” 


All  in  the  gorgeous  death  of  day 

We  had  slipped  from  our  emerald  creek, 

And  our  Cloud  iJ  the  Sun  was  careening  away 
With  the  old  gay  flag  at  the  peak, 

When,  suddenly,  out  of  the  purple  wood, 
Breast-high  thro’  the  lilies  there  danced 
A tall  lean  figure,  black  as  a nigger, 

That  shouted  and  waved  and  pranced! 

Chorus : A gold-greased  figure,  but  black  as  a nigger, 

Waving  his  shirt  as  he  pranced! 

“ ’Tis  Hylas!  ’Tis  Hylas!”  our  chaplain  flutes, 
And  our  skipper  he  looses  a shout! 

“’Tis  Bill!  Black  Bill,  in  his  old  sea-boots! 

Stand  by  to  bring  her  about ! 

Har-r-rd  a-starboard /”  And  round  we  came, 
With  a lurch  and  a dip  and  a roll, 

And  a banging  boom  thro’  the  rose-red  gloom 
For  our  old  Black  Bo’sun’s  soul! 

Alive!  Not  dead!  Tho’  behind  his  head 
He’d  a seraphin’s  aureole! 


Chorus: 


BLACK  BILL’S  HONEY-MOON 


321 


And  our  chaplain  he  sniffs,  as  Bill  finished  his  tale, 
(With  the  honey  still  scenting  his  hair!) 

O’er  a plate  of  salt  beef  and  a mug  of  old  ale — 

“By  Pope  Joan,  there’s  no  sense  in  a bear!” 

And  we  laughed,  but  our  Bo’sun  he  solemnly  growls 
— “Till  the  sails  of  yon  heavens  be  furled, 

It  taketh — now,  mark! — all  the  beasts  in  the  Ark, 
Teeth  and  claws,  too,  to  make  a good  world!” 

G horns:  Till  the  great — blue — sails — be — furled, 

It  taketh — now,  mark! — all  the  beasts  in  the  Ark, 
Teeth  and  claws,  too,  to  make  a good  world ! 


“Sack!  Sack!  Canary!  Malmsey!  Muscadel!” — * 
As  the  last  canto  ceased,  the  Mermaid  Inn 
Chorussed.  I flew  from  laughing  voice  to  voice; 

But,  over  all  the  hubbub,  rose  the  drone 
Of  Francis  Bacon, — “Now,  this  Muscovy 
Is  a cold  clime,  not  favourable  to  bees 
(Or  love,  which  is  a weakness  of  the  south) 

As  well  might  be  supposed.  Yet,  as  hot  lands 
Gender  hot  fruits  and  odoriferous  spice, 

In  this  case  we  may  think  that  honey  and  flowers 
Are  comparable  with  the  light  airs  of  May 
And  a more  temperate  region.  Also  we  see, 

As  Pliny  saith,  this  honey  being  a swette 
Of  heaven,  a certain  spettle  of  the  stars, 

Which,  gathering  unclean  vapours  as  it  falls, 

Hangs  as  a fat  dew  on  the  boughs,  the  bees 
Obtain  it  partly  thus,  and  afterwards 
Corrupt  it  in  their  stomachs,  and  at  last- 
Expel  it  through  their  mouths  and  harvest  it 
In  hives;  yet,  of  its  heavenly  source  it  keeps 
A great  part.  Thus,  by  various  principles 
Of  natural  philosophy  we  observe — ” 

And,  as  he  leaned  to  Drayton,  droning  thus, 

I saw  a light  gleam  of  celestial  mirth 

Flit  o’er  the  face  of  Shakespeare — scarce  a smile — 

A swift  irradiation  from  within 
As  of  a cloud  that  softly  veils  the  sun. 

21 


322 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


IV 

THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SHOE 

We  had  just  set  our  brazier  smouldering, 

To  keep  the  Plague  away.  Many  a house 
Was  marked  with  the  red  cross.  The  bells  tolled 
Incessantly.  Nash  crept  into  the  room 
Shivering  like  a fragment  of  the  night, 

His  face  yellow  as  parchment,  and  his  eyes 
Burning. 

“The  Plague!  He  has  taken  it!”  voices  cried. 
“That’s  not  the  Plague!  The  old  carrion-crow  is  drunk; 

But  stand  away.  What  ails  you,  Nash  my  lad?” 

Then,  through  the  clamour,  as  through  a storm  at  sea, 

The  master’s  voice,  the  voice  of  Ben,  rang  out, 

“Nash!” 

Ben  leapt  to  his  feet,  and  like  a ship 
Shouldering  the  waves,  he  shouldered  the  throng  aside. 

“What  ails  you,  man?  What’s  that  upon  your  breast? 
Blood?” 

“Marlowe  is  dead,”  said  Nash, 

And  stunned  the  room  to  silence  . . . 

4 ‘ Marlowe — dead  \}f 

Ben  caught  him  by  the  shoulders.  “Nash!  Awake! 

What  do  you  mean?  Marlowe?  Kit  Marlowe?  Dead? 

I supped  with  him — why — not  three  nights  ago! 

You  are  drunk!  You  are  dazed!  There’s  blood  upon  your 
coat!” 

“That’s — where  he  died,”  said  Nash,  and  suddenly  sank 
Sidelong  across  a bench,  bowing  his  head 
Between  his  hands  . . . 

Wept,  I believe.  Then,  like  a whip  ox  steel, 

His  lean  black  figure  sprang  erect  again. 

“Marlowe!”  he  cried,  “Kit  Marlowe,  killed  for  a punk,, 

A taffeta  petticoat!  Killed  by  an  apple-squire! 

Drunk!  I was  drunk;  but  I am  sober  now, 

Sober  enough,  by  God!  Poor  Kit  is  dead.” 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SHOE 


323 


The  Mermaid  Inn  was  thronged  for  many  a night 
With  startled  faces.  Voices  rose  and  fell, 

As  I recall  them,  in  a great  vague  dream, 

Curious,  pitiful,  angry,  thrashing  out 

The  tragic  truth.  Then,  all  along  the  Cheape, 

The  ballad-mongers  waved  their  sheets  of  rhyme, 

Croaking:  Gome  buy ! Come  buy!  The  bloody  death 
Of  W or  mall,  writ  by  Master  Richard  Bame! 

Come  buy!  Come  buy!  The  Atheist1  s Tragedy . 

And,  even  in  Bread  Street,  at  our  very  door, 

The  crowder  to  his  cracked  old  fiddle  sang: — 

“He  was  a poet  of  proud  repute 
And  wrote  full  many  a play, 

Now  strutting  in  a silken  suit, 

Now  begging  by  the  way  ." 

Then,  out  of  the  hubbub  and  the  clash  of  tongues, 

The  bawdy  tales  and  scraps  of  balladry, 

(As  out  of  chaos  rose  the  slow  round  world) 

At  last,  though  for  the  Mermaid  Inn  alone, 

Emerged  some  tragic  semblance  of  a soul, 

Some  semblance  of  the  rounded  truth,  a world 
Glimpsed  only  through  great  mists  of  blood  and  tears, 

Yet  smitten,  here  and  there,  with  dreadful  light, 

As  I believe,  from  heaven. 

Strangely  enough, 

(Though  Ben  forgot  his  pipe  and  Will's  deep  eyes 
Deepened  and  softened,  when  they  spoke  of  Kit, 

For  many  a month  thereafter)  it  was  Nash 
That  took  the  blow  like  steel  into  his  heart. 

Nash,  our  “ Piers  Penniless,"  whom  Rob  Greene  had  called 
“ Young  Juvenal,"  the  first  satirist  of  our  age, 

Nash,  of  the  biting  tongue  and  subtle  sneer, 

Brooded  upon  it,  till  his  grief  became 
Sharp  as  a rapier,  ready  to  lunge  in  hate 
At  all  the  lies  of  shallower  hearts. 

One  night, 

The  night  he  raised  the  mists  from  that  wild  world, 

He  talked  with  Chapman  in  the  Mermaid  Inn 
Of  Marlowe's  poem  that  was  left  half-sung, 

His  Hero  and  Leander . 


324 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


“Kit  desired, 

If  he  died  first,  that  you  should  finish  it/' 

Said  Nash. 

A loaded  silence  filled  the  room 
As  with  the  imminent  spirit  of  the  dead 
Listening.  And  long  that  picture  haunted  met 
Nash,  like  a lithe  young  Mephistopheles 
Leaning  between  the  silver  candle-sticks, 

Across  the  oak  table,  with  his  keen  white  face, 

Dark  smouldering  eyes,  and  black,  dishevelled  hair; 
Chapman,  with  something  of  the  steady  strength 
That  helms  our  ships,  and  something  of  the  Greek, 
The  cool  clear  passion  of  Platonic  thought 
Behind  the  fringe  of  his  Olympian  beard 
And  broad  Homeric  brows,  confronting  him 
Gravely. 

There  was  a burden  of  mystery 
Brooding  on  all  that  night;  and,  when  at  last 
Chapman  replied,  I knew  he  felt  it,  too. 

The  curious  pedantry  of  his  wonted  speech 
Was  charged  with  living  undertones,  like  truths 
Too  strange  and  too  tremendous  to  be  breathed 
Save  thro’  a mask.  And  though,  in  lines  that  flamed 
Once  with  strange  rivalry,  Shakespeare  himself  defied, 
Chapman,  that  spirit  “by  spirits  taught  to  write 
Above  a mortal  pitch,”  Wilks  nimbler  sense 
Was  quick  to  breathings  from  beyond  our  world 
And  could  not  hold  them  lightly. 

“Ah,  then  Kit,” 

Said  Chapman,  “had  some  prescience  of  his  end, 

Like  many  another  dreamer.  What  strange  hints 
Of  things  past,  present,  and  to  come,  there  lie 
Sealed  in  the  magic  pages  of  that  music 
Which,  laying  strong  hold  on  universal  laws, 

Ranges  beyond  these  mud-walls  of  the  flesh, 

Though  dull  wits  fail  to  follow.  If  was  this 
That  made  men  find  an  oracle  in  the  books 
Of  Vergil,  and  an  everlasting  fount 
Of  science  in  the  prophets.” 

Once  again 

That  haunted  silence  filled  the  shadowy  room; 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SHOE 


325 


And,  far  away  up  Bread  Street,  we  could  hear 
The  erowder,  piping  of  black  Wormall  still: — 

“He  had  a friend,  once  gay  and  green , 

Who  died  of  want  alone, 

In  whose  black  fate  he  might  have  seen 
The  warning  of  his  own  .” 

“ Strange  he  should  ask  a hod-man  like  myself 
To  crown  that  miracle  of  his  April  age,” 

Said  Chapman,  murmuring  softly  under  breath, 

“ Amorous  Leander,  beautiful  and  young  . . . 

Why,  Nash,  had  I been  only  charged  to  raise 
Out  of  its  grave  in  the  green  Hellespont 
The  body  of  that  boy, 

To  make  him  sparkle  and  leap  thro’  the  cold  waves 
And  fold  young  Hero  to  his  heart  again, 

The  task  were  scarce  as  hard. 

But  . . . stranger  still,” — 
And  his  next  words,  although  I hardly  knew 
All  that  he  meant,  went  tingling  through  my  flesh — 

“ Before  you  spoke,  before  I knew  his  wish, 

I had  begun  to  write! 

I knew  and  loved 
His  work.  Himself  I hardly  knew  at  all; 

And  yet — I know  him  now ! I have  heard  him  now 
And,  since  he  pledged  me  in  so  rare  a cup, 

Fll  lift  and  drink  to  him,  though  lightnings  fall 
From  envious  gods  to  scourge  me.  I will  lift 
This  cup  in  darkness  to  the  soul  that  reigns 
In  light  on  Helicon.  Who  knows  how  near? 

For  X have  thought,  sometimes,  when  I have  tried 
To  work  his  will,  the  hand  that  moved  my  pen 
Was  mine,  and  yet — not  mine.  The  bodily  mask 
Is  mine,  and  sometimes,  dull  as  clay,  it  sleeps 
With  old  Musseus.  Then  strange  flashes  come, 

Oracular  glories,  visionary  gleams, 

And  the  mask  moves,  not  of  itself,  and  sings.” 

“I  know  that  thought,”  said  Nash.  “A  mighty  ship, 

A lightning-shattered  wreck,  out  in  that  night, 

Unseen,  has  foundered  thundering.  We  sit  here 


326 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Snug  on  the  shore,  and  feel  the  wash  of  it, 

The  widening  circles  running  to  our  feet. 

Can  such  a soul  go  down  to  glut  the  sharks 
Without  one  ripple?  Here  comes  one  sprinkle  of  spray 
Listen!”  And  through  that  night,  quick  and  intense., 

And  hushed  for  thunder,  tingled  once  again, 

Like  a thin  wire,  the  crowder’s  distant  tune: — 

“ Had  he  been  pr enticed  to  the  trade 
His  father  followed  still, 

This  exit  he  had  never  made, 

Nor  played  a part  so  ill.” 

“Here  is  another,”  said  Nash,  “I  know  not  why; 

But  like  a weed  in  the  long  wash,  I too 
Was  moved,  not  of  myself,  to  a tune  like  this. 

O,  I can  play  the  crowder,  fiddle  a song 
On  a dead  friend,  with  any  the  best  of  you. 

Lie  and  kick  heels  in  the  sun  on  a dead  man’s  grave 
And  yet — God  knows — it  is  the  best  we  can; 

And  better  than  the  world’s  way,  to  forget.” 

So  saying,  like  one  that  murmurs  happy  words 
To  torture  his  own  grief,  half  in  self-scorn, 

He  breathed  a scrap  of  balladry  that  raised 
The  mists  a moment  from  that  Paradise, 

That  primal  world  of  innocence,  where  Kit 
In  childhood  played,  outside  his  father’s  shop, 

Under  the  sign  of  the  Golden  Shoe,  as  thus: — 

A cobbler  lived  in  Canterbury 
— He  is  dead  now,  poor  soul! — 

He  sat  at  his  door  and  stitched  in  the  sun, 

Nodding  and  smiling  at  everyone; 

For  St.  Hugh  makes  all  good  cobblers  merry. 

And  often  he  sang  as  the  pilgrims  passed, 

“ I can  hammer  a soldier’s  boot, 

And  daintily  glove  a dainty  foot. 

Many  a sandal  from  my  hand 
Has  walked  the  road  to  Holy  Land. 

Knights  may  fight  for  me,  priests  may  pray  for  me, 
Pilgrims  walk  the  pilgrim’s  way  for  me, 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SHOE 


327 


I have  a work  in  the  world  to  do! 

— Trowl  the  bowl , the  nut-brown  bowl , 
To  good  St.  Hugh ! — 

The  cobbler  must  stick  to  his  last.” 


And  anon  he  would  cry 
“Kit!  Kit!  Kit!”  to  his  little  son, 

“Look  at  the  pilgrims  riding  by! 

Dance  down,  hop  down,  after  them,  run!” 

Then,  like  an  unfledged  linnet,  out 
Would  tumble  the  brave  little  lad, 

With  a piping  shout, — 

“O,  look  at  them,  look  at  them,  look  at  them,  Dad! 
Priest  and  prioress,  abbot  and  friar, 

Soldier  and  seaman,  knight  and  squire! 

How  many  countries  have  they  seen? 

Is  there  a king  .there,  is  there  a queen? 

Dad,  one  day, 

Thou  and  I must  ride  like  this, 

All  along  the  Pilgrim’s  Way, 

By  Glastonbury  and  Samarcand, 

El  Dorado  and  Cathay, 

London  and  Persepolis, 

All  the  way  to  Holy  Land!” 


Then,  shaking  his  head  as  if  he  knew, 
Under  the  sign  of  the  Golden  Shoe , 

Touched  by  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun, 
While  the  pilgrims  passed, 

The  little  cobbler  would  laugh  and  say: 
“When  you  are  old  you  will  understand 
’Tis  a very  long  way 
To  Samarcand! 

Why,  largely  to  exaggerate 
Befits  not  men  of  small  estate, 

But — I should  say,  yes,  I should  say, 

’Tis  a hundred  miles  from  where  you  stand; 
And  a hundred  more,  my  little  son, 

A hundred  more,  to  Holy  Land!  . . . 


328 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


I have  a work  in  the  world  to  do 
— Trowl  the  bowl , the  nut-brown  bowly 
To  good  St.  Hugh! — 

The  cobbler  must  stick  to  his  last.” 

“ Which  last,”  said  Nash,  breaking  Ms  rhyme  off  short, 

“ The  crowder,  after  his  kind,  would  seem  to  approve. 
Well — all  the  waves  from  that  great  wreck  out  there 
Break,  and  are  lost  in  one  withdrawing  sigh: 

The  little  lad  that  used  to  play 
Around  the  cobbler’s  door, 

Kit  Marlowe,  Kit  Marlowe, 

We  shall  not  see  him  more. 

But — could  I tell  you  how  that  galleon  sank, 

Could  I but  bring  you  to  that  hollow  whirl, 

The  black  gulf  in  mid-ocean,  where  that  wreck 
Went  thundering  down,  and  round  it  hell  still  roars, 
That  were  a tale  to  snap  all  fiddle-strings.” 

“Tell  me,”  said  Chapman. 

“Ah,  you  wondered  why,” 
Said  Nash,  “you  wondered  why  he  asked  your  help 
To  crown  that  work  of  his.  Why,  Chapman,  think, 
Think  of  the  cobbler’s  awl — there’s  a stout  lance 
To  couch  at  London,  there’s  a conquering  point 
To  carry  in  triumph  through  Persepolis! 

I tell  you  Kit  was  nothing  but  a child, 

When  some  rich  patron  of  the  Golden  Shoe 

Beheld  him  riding  into  Samarcand 

Upon  a broken  chair,  the  which  he  said 

Was  a white  steed,  splashed  with  the  blood  of  kings. 

When,  on  that  patron’s  bounty,  he  did  ride 
So  far  as  Cambridge,  he  was  a brave  lad, 

Untamed,  adventurous,  but  still  innocent, 

0,  innocent  as  the  cobbler’s  little  self! 

He  brought  to  London  just  a bundle  and  .stick, 

A slender  purse,  an  Ovid,  a few  scraps 
Of  song,  and  all  unshielded,  all  unarmed 
A cMld’s  heart,  packed  with  splendid  hopes  and  dreams. 
I say  a child’s  heart,  Chapman,  and  that  phrase 
Crowns,  not  dis-crowns,  his  manhood. 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SHOE 


329 


Well — he  turned 

An  honest  penny,  taking  some  small  part 
In  plays  at  the  Red  Bull . And,  all  the  while, 

Beyond  the  paint  and  tinsel  of  the  stage, 

Beyond  th&  greasy  cock-pit  with  its  reek 
Of  orange-peel  and  civet,  as  all  of  these 
Were  but  the  clay  churned  by  the  glorious  rush 
Of  his  white  chariots  and  his  burning  steeds, 

Nay,  as  the  clay  were  a shadow,  his  great  dreams, 

Like  bannered  legions  on  some  proud  crusade, 
Empurpling  all  the  deserts  of  the  world, 

Swept  on  in  triumph  to  the  glittering  towers 
Of  his  abiding  City. 

Then — he  met 

That  damned  blood-sucking  cockatrice,  the  pug 

Of  some  fine  strutting  mummer,  one  of  those  plagues 

Bred  by  our  stage,  a puff-ball  on  the  hill 

Of  Helicon.  As  for  his  wench — she  too 

Had  played  so  many  parts  that  she  forgot 

The  cue  for  truth.  King  Puff  had  taught  her  well. 

He  was  the  vainer  and  more  foolish  thing, 

She  the  more  poisonous. 

One  dark  day,  to  spite 
Archer,  her  latest  paramour,  a friend 
And  apple-squire  to  Puff,  she  set  her  eyes 
On  Marlowe  . . . feigned  a joy  in  his  young  art, 
Murmured  his  songs,  used  all  her  London  tricks 
To  coney-catch  the  country  greenhorn.  Man, 

Kit  never  even  saw  her  painted  face! 

He  pored  on  books  by  candle-light  and  saw 
Everything  thro’  a mist.  0,  I could  laugh 
To  think  of  it,  only — his  up-turned  skull 
There,  in  the  dark,  now  that  the  flesh  drops  off, 

Has  laughed  enough,  a horrible  silent  laugh, 

To  think  his  Angel  of  Light  was,  after  all, 

Only  the  red-lipped  Angel  of  the  Plague. 

He  was  no  better  than  the  rest  of  us, 

No  worse.  He  felt  the  heat.  He  felt  the  cold. 

He  took  her  down  to  Deptford  to  escape 
Contagion,  and  the  crashing  of  sextons’  spades 
On  dead  men’s  bones  in  every  churchyard  round; 


30  TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


The  jangling  bell  and  the  cry,  Bring  out  your  dead . 

And  there  she  told  him  of  her  luckless  life, 

Wedded,  deserted,  both  against  her  will, 

A luckless  Eve  that  never  knew  the  snake. 

True  and  half-true  she  mixed  in  one  wild  lie, 

And  then — she  caught  him  by  the  hand  and  wept. 

No  death-cart  passed  to  warn  him  with  its  bell. 

Her  eyes,  her  perfumed  hair,  and  her  red  mouth. 

Her  warm  white  breast,  her  civet-scented  skin, 
Swimming  before  him,  in  a piteous  mist, 

Made  the  lad  drunk,  and — she  was  in  his  arms; 

And  all  that  God  had  meant  to  wake  one  day 
Under  the  Sun  of  Love,  suddenly  woke 
By  candle-light  and  cried,  ‘The  Sun;  The  Sun!' 

And  he  believed  it,  Chapman,  he  believed  it! 

He  was  a cobbler’s  son,  and  he  believed 

In  Love!  Blind,  through  that  mist,  he  caught  at  Love, 

The  everlasting  King  of  all  this  world. 

Kit  was  not  clever.  Clever  men — like  Pomp — 

Might  jest.  And  fools  might  laugh.  But  when  a man, 
Simple  as  all  great  elemental  things, 

Makes  his  whole  heart  a sacrificial  fire 
To  one  whose  love  is  in  her  supple  skin, 

There  comes  a laughter  in  which  jests  break  up 
Like  icebergs  in  a sea  of  burning  marl. 

Then  dreamers  turn  to  murderers  in  an  hour. 

Then  topless  towers  are  burnt,  and  the  Ocean-sea 
Tramples  the  proud  fleet,  down,  into  the  dark, 

And  sweeps  over  it,  laughing.  Come  and  see, 

The  heart  now  of  this  darkness — no  more  waves, 

But  the  black  central  hollow  where  that  wreck 
Went  down  for  ever. 

How  should  Piers  Penniless 
Brand  that  wild  picture  on  the  world’s  black  heart?— 
Last  night  I tried  the  way  of  the  Florentine, 

And  bruised  myself ; but  we  are  friends  together 
Mourning  a dead  friend,  none  will  ever  know! — 

Kit,  do  you  smile  at  poor  Piers  Penniless, 

Measuring  it  out?  Ah,  boy,  it  is  my  best! 

Since  hearts  must  beat,  let  it  be  terza  rima , 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SHOE 


331 


A ladder  of  rhyme  that  two  sad  friends  alone 
May  let  down,  thus,  to  the  last  circle  of  hell.” 

So  saying,  and  motionless  as  a man  in  trance, 

Nash  breathed  the  words  that  raised  the  veil  anew, 
Strange  intervolving  words  which,  as  he  spake  them, 
Moved  like  the  huge  slow  whirlpool  of  that  pit 
Where  the  wreck  sank,  the  serpentine  slow  folds 
Of  the  lewd  Kraken  that  sucked  it,  shuddering,  down:— 

This  is  the  Deptford  Inn.  Climb  the  dark  stair. 

Come,  come  and  see  Kit  Marlowe  lying  dead! 

See,  on  the  table,  by  that  broken  chair, 

The  little  phials  of  paint — the  white  and  red. 

A cut-lawn  kerchief  hangs  behind  the  door, 

Left  by  his  punk,  even  as  the  tapster  said. 

There  is  the  gold-fringed  taffeta  gown  she  wore, 

And,  on  that  wine-stained  bed,  as  is  most  meet, 

He  lies  alone,  never  to  waken  more. 

0,  still  as  chiselled  marble,  the  frayed  sheet 
Folds  the  still  form  on  that  sepulchral  bed, 

Hides  the  dead  face,  and  peaks  the  rigid  feet. 

Come,  come  and  see  Kit  Marlowe  lying  dead! 

Draw  back  the  sheet,  ah,  tenderly  lay  bare 
The  splendour  of  that  Apollonian  head; 

The  gloriole  of  his  flame-coloured  hair; 

The  lean  athletic  body,  deftly  planned 
To  carry  that  swift  soul  of  fire  and  air; 

The  long  thin  flanks,  the  broad  breast,  and  the  grand 
Heroic  shoulders!  Look,  what  lost  dreams  lie 
Cold  in  the  fingers  of  that  delicate  hand; 

And,  shut  within  those  lyric  lips,  what  cry 
Of  unborn  beauty,  sunk  in  utter  night, 

Lost  worlds  of  song,  sealed  in  an  unknown  sky, 


382 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Never  to  be  brought  forth,  clothed  on  with  light. 

Was  this,  then,  this  the  secret  of  his  song? — 

Who  ever  loved  that  loved  not  at  first  sight  f 

It  was  not  Love,  not  Love,  that  wrought  this  wrong; 

And  yet — what  evil  shadow  of  this  dark  town 
Could  quench  a soul  so  flame-like  clean  and  strong, 

Strike  the  young  glory  of  his  manhood  down, 

Dead,  like  a dog,  dead  in  a drunken  brawl, 

Dead  for  a phial  of  paint,  a taffeta  gown? 

What  if  his  blood  were  hot?  High  over  all 
He  heard,  as  in  his  song  the  world  still  hears, 

Those  angels  on  the  burning  heavenly  wall 

Who  chant  the  thunder-music  of  the  spheres. 

Yet — through  the  glory  of  his  own  young  dream 
Here  did  he  meet  that  face,  wet  with  strange  tears, 

Andromeda,  with  piteous  face  astream, 

Hailing  him,  Perseus.  In  her  treacherous  eyes 
As  in  dark  pools  the  mirrored  stars  will  gleam, 

Here  did  he  see  his  own  eternal  skies; 

And  here — she  laughed,  nor  found  the  dream  amiss; 
But  bade  him  pluck  and  eat — in  Paradise. 

Here  did  she  hold  him,  broken  up  with  bliss, 

Here,  like  a supple  snake,  around  him  coiled, 

Here  did  she  pluck  his  heart  out  with  a kiss, 

Here  were  the  wings  clipped  and  the  glory  soiled, 

Here  adders  coupled  in  the  pure  white  shrine, 

Here  was  the  Wine  spilt,  and  the  Shew-bread  spoiled. 

Black  was  that  feast,  though  he  who  poured  the  Wine 
Dreamed  that  he  poured  it  in  high  sacrament. 

Deep  in  her  eyes  he  saw  his  own  eyes  shine, 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SHOE 


333 


Beheld  Love’s  god-head  and  was  well  content. 

Subtly  her  hand  struck  the  pure  silver  note, 
The  throbbing  chord  of  passion  that  God  meant 


To  swell  the  bliss  of  heaven.  Round  his  young  throat 
She  wound  her  swarthy  tresses;  then,  with  eyes 
Half  mad  to  see  their  power,  half  mad  to  gloat, 

Half  mad  to  batten  on  their  own  devilries, 

And  mark  what  heaven-born  splendours  they  could  quell, 
She  held  him  quivering  in  a mesh  of  lies, 

And  in  soft  broken  speech  began  to  tell — 

There  as,  against  her  heart,  throbbing  he  lay — 

The  truth  that  hurled  his  soul  from  heaven  to  hell. 

Quivering,  she  watched  the  subtle  whip-lash  flay 
The  white  flesh  of  the  dreams  of  his  pure  youth; 

Then  sucked  the  blood  and  left  them  cold  as  clay. 

Luxuriously  she  lashed  him  with  the  truth. 

Against  his  mouth  her  subtle  mouth  she  set 
To  show,  as  through  a mask,  O,  without  ruth, 

As  through  a cold  clay  mask  (brackish  and  wet 
With  what  strange  tears!)  it  was  not  his,  not  his, 

The  kiss  that  through  his  quivering  lips  she  met. 

Kissing  him,  “Thus,”  she  whispered,  “did  he  kiss . 

Ah,  is  the  sweetness  like  a sword,  then,  sweet f 
Last  night — ah,  kiss  again — aching  with  bliss, 

Thus  was  I made  his  own,  from  head  to  feet  ” 

— A sudden  agony  thro’  his  body  swept 
Tempestuously. — “Our  wedded  pulses  beat 

Like  this  and  this;  and  then,  at  dawn,  he  slept  .” 

She  laughed,  pouting  her  lips  against  his  cheek 
To  drink;  and,  as  in  answer,  Marlowe  wept. 


334 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


As  a dead  man  in  dreams,  he  heard  her  speak. 

Clasped  in  the  bitter  grave  of  that  sweet  clay, 

Wedded  and  one  with  it,  he  moaned.  Too  weak 

Even  to  lift  his  head,  sobbing,  he  lay. 

Then,  slowly,  as  their  breathings  rose  and  fell. 

He  felt  the  storm  of  passion,  far  away, 

Gather.  The  shuddering  waves  began  to  swell. 

And,  through  the  menace  of  the  thunder-roll, 

The  thin  quick  lightnings,  thrilling  through  his  hell, 

Lightnings  that  hell  itself  could  not  control 
(Even  while  she  strove  to  bow’  his  neck  anew) 

Woke  the  great  slumbering  legions  of  his  soul. 

Sharp  was  that  severance  of  the  false  and  true, 

Sharp  as  a sword  drawn  from  a shuddering  wound. 

But  they,  that  were  one  flesh,  were  cloven  in  two. 

Flesh  leapt  from  clasping  flesh,  without  a sound. 

He  plucked  his  body  from  her  white  embrace, 

And  cast  him  down,  and  grovelled  on  the  ground. 

Yet,  ere  he  went,  he  strove  once  more  to  trace, 

Deep  in  her  eyes,  the  loveliness  he  knew; 

Then — spat  his  hatred  into  her  smiling  face. 

She  clung  to  him.  He  flung  her  off.  He  drew 

His  dagger,  thumbed  the  blade,  and  laughed — “Poor  punk! 
What?  Would  you  make  me  your  own  murderer,  too?’! 


“That  was  the  day  of  our  great  feast/’  said  Nash, 
“Aboard  the  Golden  Hynde.  The  grand  old  hulk 
Was  drawn  up  for  the  citizens’  wonderment 
At  Deptford.  Ay,  Piers  Penniless  was  there! 

Soaked  and  besotted  as  I was,  I saw 
Everything.  On  her  poop  the  minstrels  played, 

And  round  her  sea-worn  keel,  like  meadow-sweet 
Curtseying  round  a lightning-blackened  oak, 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SHOE 


335 


Prentices  and  their  sweethearts,  heel  and  toe, 

Danced  the  brave  English  dances,  clean  and  fresh 
As  May. 

But  in  her  broad  gun-guarded  waist 
Once  red  with  British  blood,  long  tables  groaned 
For  revellers  not  so  worthy.  Where  her  guns 
Had  raked  the  seas,  barrels  of  ale  were  sprung, 

Bestrid  by  roaring  tipplers.  Where  at  night 
The  storm-beat  crew  silently  bowed  their  heads 
With  Drake  before  the  King  of  Life  and  Death, 

A strumpet  wrestled  with  a mountebank 
For  pence,  a loose-limbed  Lais  with  a clown 
Of  Cherry  Hilton.  Leering  at  their  lewd  twists, 
Cross-legged  upon  the  deck,  sluggish  with  sack, 

Like  a squat  toad  sat  Puff  . . . 

Propped  up  against  the  bulwarks,  at  his  side, 

Archer,  his  apple-squire,  hiccoughed  a bawdy  song. 

Suddenly,  through  that  orgy,  with  wild  eyes, 

Yet  with  her  customary  smile,  O,  there 
I saw  in  daylight  what  Kit  Marlowe  saw 
Through  blinding  mists,  the  face  of  his  first  love. 

She  stood  before  her  paramour  on  the  deck, 

Cocking  her  painted  head  to  right  and  left, 

Her  white  teeth  smiling,  but  her  voice  a hiss: 

‘ Quickly/  she  said  to  Archer,  ‘come  away, 

Or  there’ll  be  blood  spilt!’ 

‘Better  blood  than  wine/ 
Said  Archer,  struggling  to  his  feet,  ‘but  who, 

Who  would  spill  blood?’ 

‘Marlowe!’  she  said. 

Then  Puff 

Reeled  to  his  feet.  ‘What,  Kit,  the  cobbler’s  son? 

The  lad  that  broke  his  leg  at  the  Red  Bull , 
Tamburlaine-Marlowe,  he  that  would  chain  kings 
To’s  chariot- wheel?  What,  is  he  rushing  hither? 

He  would  spill  blood  for  Gloriana,  hey? 

0,  my  Belphoebe,  you  will  crack  my  sides! 

Was  this  the  wench  that  shipped  a thousand  squires? 

O,  ho!  But  here  he  comes.  Now,  solemnly,  lads, — 
Now  walk  the  angels  on  the  walls  of  heaven 
To  entertain  divine  ZenocrateP 


336 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


And  there  stood  Kit,  high  on  the  storm-scarred  poop, 
Against  the  sky,  bare-headed.  I saw  his  face, 

Pale,  innocent,  just  the  clear  face  of  that  boy 
Who  walked  to  Cambridge  with  a bundle  and  stick, — 
The  little  cobbler’s  son.  Yet — there  I caught 
My  only  glimpse  of  how  the  sun-god  looked, 

And  only  for  one  moment. 

When  he  saw 

His  mistress,  his  face  whitened,  and  he  shook. 

Down  to  the  deck  he  came,  a poor  weak  man; 

And  yet — by  God — the  only  man  that  day 
In  all  our  drunken  crew. 

1 Come  along,  Kit/ 

Cried  Puff,  ‘ we’ll  all  be  friends  now,  all  take  hands, 

And  dance — ha!  ha! — the  shaking  of  the  sheets!’ 

Then  Archer,  shuffling  a step,  raised  his  cracked  voice 
In  Kit’s  own  song  to  a falsetto  tune, 

Snapping  one  hand,  thus,  over  his  head  as  he  danced: — 

4 Come,  live  with  me,  and  he  my  love , 

And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove!’  . . . 


Puff  reeled  between,  laughing.  ‘Damn  you,’  cried  Kit, 
And,  catching  the  fat  swine  by  his  round  soft  throat, 
Hurled  him  headlong,  crashing  across  the  tables, 

To  lie  and  groan  in  the  red  bilge  of  wine 
That  washed  the  scuppers. 

Kit  gave  him  not  one  glance.. 
‘Archer,’  he  said  in  a whisper. 

Instantly 

A long  thin  rapier  flashed  in  Archer’s  hand. 

The  ship  was  one  wild  uproar.  Women  screamed 
And  huddled  together.  A drunken  clamorous  ring 
Seethed  around  Marlowe  and  his  enemy. 

Kit  drew  his  dagger,  slowly,  and  I knew 
Blood  would  be  spilt. 

‘Here,  take  my  rapier,  Kit!’ 

I cried  across  the  crowd,  seeing  the  lad 
Was  armed  so  slightly.  But  he  did  not  hear. 

I could  not  reach  him. 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SHOE 


337 


All  at  once  he  leapt 
Like  a wounded  tiger,  past  the  rapier  point 
Straight  at  his  enemy’s  throat.  I saw  his  hand 
Up-raised  to  strike!  I heard  a harlot’s  scream, 

And,  in  mid-air,  the  hand  stayed,  quivering,  white, 

A frozen  menace. 

I saw  a yellow  claw 

Twisting  the  dagger  out  of  that  frozen  hand; 

I saw  his  own  steel  in  that  yellow  grip, 

His  own  lost  lightning  raised  to  strike  at  him! 

I saw  it  flash!  I heard  the  driving  grunt 
Of  him  that  struck!  Then,  with  a shout,  the  crowd 
Sundered,  and  through  the  gap,  a blank  red  thing 
Streaming  with  blood  came  the  blind  face  of  Kit, 
Reeling,  to  me!  And  I,  poor  drunken  I, 

Held  my  arms  wide  for  him.  Here,  on  my  breast, 

With  one  great  sob,  he  burst  his  heart  and  died.” 

Nash  ceased.  And,  far  away  down  Friday  Street, 

The  crowder  with  his  fiddler  wailed  again : 

11  Blaspheming  Tamholin  must  die 
And  Faustus  meet  his  end . 

Repent , repent , or  presentlie 
To  hell  ye  must  descend .” 

And,  as  in  answer,  Chapman  slowly  breathed 
Those  mightiest  lines  of  Marlowe’s  own  despair: 

“ Think1  st  thou  that  I who  saw  the  face  of  God , 

And  tasted  the  eternal  joys  of  heaven , 

Am  not  tormented  with  ten  thousand  hells f” 

“Ah,  you  have  said  it,”  said  Nash,  “and  there  you  know 
Why  Kit  desired  your  hand  to  crown  his  work. 

He  reverenced  you  as  one  whose  temperate  eyes 
Austere  and  grave,  could  look  him  through  and  through; 
One  whose  firm  hand  could  grasp  the  reins  of  law 
And  guide  those  furious  horses  of  the  sun, 

As  Ben  and  Will  can  guide  them,  where  you  will. 

His  were,  perchance,  the  noblest  steeds  of  all, 

22 


338 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


And  from  their  nostrils  blew  a fierier  dawn 
Above  the  world.  That  glory  is  his  own; 

But  where  he  fell,  he  fell.  Before  his  hand 

Had  learned  to  quell  them,  he  was  dashed  to  the  earth. 

’Tis  yours  to  show  that  good  men  honoured  him. 

For,  mark  this,  Chapman,  since  Kit  Marlowe  fell, 
There  will  be  fools  that,  in  the  name  of  Art, 

Will  wallow  in  the  mire,  crying  c I fall, 

I fall  from  heaven !’ — fools  that  have  only  heard 
From  earth,  the  rumour  of  those  golden  hooves 
Far,  far  above  them.  Yes,  you  know  the  kind, 

The  fools  that  scorn  Will  for  his  lack  of  fire 
Because  he  quells  the  storms  they  never  knew, 

And  rides  above  the  thunder;  fools  of  Art 
That  skip  and  vex,  like  little  vicious  fleas, 

Their  only  Helicon,  some  green  madam’s  breast. 

Art!  Art!  0,  God,  that  I could  send  my  soul, 

In  one  last  wave,  from  that  night-hidden  wreck, 

Across  the  shores  of  all  the  years  to  be; 

O,  God,  that  like  a crowder  I might  shake 
Their  blind  dark  casements  with  the  pity  of  it, 

Piers  Penniless  his  ballad,  a poor  scrap, 

That  but  for  lack  of  time,  and  hope  and  pence, 

He  might  have  bettered!  For  a dead  man’s  sake, 

Thus  would  the  wave  break,  thus  the  crowder  ory: — 


Dead,  like  a dog  upon  the  road; 

Dead,  for  a harlot’s  kiss; 

The  Apollonian  throat  and  brow, 

The  lyric  lips,  so  silent  now, 

The  flaming  wings  that  heaven  bestowed 
For  loftier  airs  than  this! 


The  sun-like  eyes  whose  light  and  life 
Had  gazed  an  angel’s  down, 

That  burning  heart  of  honey  and  fire, 
Quenched  and  dead  for  an  apple-squire, 
Quenched  at  the  thrust  of  a mummer’s  knife, 
Dead — for  a taffeta  gown! 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SHOE 


339 


The  wine  that  God  had  set  apart, 

The  noblest  wine  of  all, 

Wine  of  the  grapes  that  angels  trod, 

The  vintage  of  the  glory  of  God, 

The  crimson  wine  pf  that  rich  heart, 

Spilt  in  a drunken  brawl, 

Poured  out  to  make  a steaming  bath 
That  night  in  the  Devil's  Inn, 

A steaming  bath  of  living  wine 
Poured  out  for  Circe  and  her  swine, 

A bath  of  blood  for  a harlot 
To  supple  and  sleek  her  skin. 

And  many  a fool  that  finds  it  sweet 
Through  all  the  years  to  be, 

Crowning  a lie  with  Marlowe's  fame,  ** 

Will  ape  the  sin,  will  ape  the  shame, 

Will  ape  our  captain  in  defeat; 

But — not  in  victory; 

Till  Art  become  a leaping-house, 

And  Death  be  crowned  as  Life, 

And  one  wild  jest  outshine  the  soul 
Of  Truth  ...  0,  fool,  is  this  your  goal? 

You  are  not  our  Kit  Marlowe, 

But  the  drunkard  with  the  knife; 

Not  Marlowe,  but  the  Jack-o'-Lent 
That  lured  him  o'er  the  fen! 

O,  ay,  the  tavern  is  in  its  place, 

And  the  punk's  painted  smiling  face, 

But  where  is  our  Kit  Marlowe 
The  man,  the  king  of  men? 

Passion?  You  kiss  the  painted  mouth, 

The  hand  that  clipped  his  wings, 

The  hand  that  into  his  heart  she  thrust 
And  tuned  him  to  her  whimpering  lust, 

And  played  upon  his  quivering  youth 
As  a crowder  plucks  the  strings. 


340 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


But  he  who  dared  the  thunder-roll, 
Whose  eagle-wings  could  soar, 
Buffeting  down  the  clouds  of  night, 
To  beat  against  the  Light  of  Light, 
That  great  God-blinded  eagle-soul, 
We  shall  not  see  him  more.” 


V 

THE  COMPANION  OF  A MILE 

Thwack!  Thwack!  One  early  dawn  upon  our  door 
I heard  the  bladder  of  some  motley  fool 
Bouncing,  and  all  the  dusk  of  London  shook 
With  bells ! I leapt  from  bed, — had  I forgotten? — 
I flung  my  casement  wide  and  craned  my  neck 
Over  the  painted  Mermaid.  There  he  stood, 

His  right  leg  yellow  and  his  left  leg  blue, 

With  jingling  cap,  a sheep-bell  at  his  tail, 

Wielding  his  eel-skin  bladder, — hang!  thwack!  bang! — 

Catching  a comrade’s  head  with  the  recoil 

And  skipping  away!  All  Bread  Street  dimly  burned 

Like  a reflected  sky,  green,  red  and  white 

With  littered  branches,  ferns  and  hawthorn-clouds; 

For,  round  Sir  Fool,  a frolic  morrice-troop 

Of  players,  poets,  prentices,  mad-cap  queans, 

Robins  and  Marians,  coloured  like  the  dawn, 

And  sparkling  like  the  greenwood  whence  they  came 
With  their  fresh  boughs  all  dewy  from  the  dark, 
Clamoured,  Gome  down!  Come  down,  and  let  us  in! 
High  over  these,  I suddenly  saw  Sir  Fool 
Leap  to  a sign-board,  swing  to  a conduit-head, 

And  perch  there,  gorgeous  on  the  morning  sky, 
Tossing  his  crimson  cockscomb  to  the  blue 
And  crowing  like  Chanticleer,  Give  them  a rouse! 

Tickle  it,  tabourer!  Nimbly,  lasses,  nimbly ! 

Tuck  up  your  russet  petticoats  and  dance! 

Let  the  Cheape  know  it  is  the  first  of  May! 


THE  COMPANION  OF  A MILE 


341 


And  as  I seized  shirt,  doublet  and  trunk-hose, 

I saw  the  hobby-horse  come  cantering  down, 

A pasteboard  steed,  dappled  a rosy  white 

Like  peach-bloom,  bridled  with  purple,  bitted  with  gold, 

A crimson  foot-cloth  on  his  royal  flanks, 

And,  riding  him,  His  Majesty  of  the  May! 

Round  him  the  whole  crowd  frolicked  with  a shout, 

And  as  I stumbled  down  the  crooked  stair 
I heard  them  break  into  a dance  and  sing: — 


SONG 

i 

Into  the  woods  we’ll  trip  and  go, 
Up  and  down  and  to  and  fro, 
Under  the  moon  to  fetch  in  May, 
And  two  by  two  till  break  of  day, 
A-maying, 

A-playing, 

For  Love  knows  no  gain-saying! 
Wisdom  trips  not?  Even  so — 
Come,  young  lovers,  trip  and  go, 
Trip  and  go. 


ir 

Out  of  the  woods  we’ll  dance  and  sing 
Under  the  morning-star  of  Spring, 

Into  the  town  with  our  fresh  boughs 
And  knock  at  every  sleeping  house, 

Not  sighing, 

Or  crying, 

Though  Love  knows  no  denying! 

Then,  round  your  summer  queen  and  king, 
Come,  young  lovers,  dance  and  sing, 

Dance  and  sing! 


342 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


“Chorus,”  the  great  Fool  tossed  his  gorgeous  crest, 

And  lustily  crew  against  the  deepening  dawn, 
“Chorus,”  till  all  the  Cheape  caught  the  refrain, 

And,  with  a double  thunder  of  frolic  feet, 

Its  ancient  nut-brown  tabors  woke  the  Strand: — 

A-maying, 

A-playing, 

For  Love  knows  no  gain-saying! 

Wisdom  trips  not?  Even  so, — 

Come,  young  lovers,  trip  and  go, 

Trip  and  go. 

Into  the  Mermaid  with  a shout  they  rushed 
As  I shot  back  the  bolts,  and  bang,  thwack,  bang , 

The  bladder  bounced  about  me.  What  cared  I? 

This  was  all  England’s  holy-day!  “Come  in, 

My  yellow-hammers,”  roared  the  Friar  Tuck 
Of  this  mad  morrice,  “come  you  into  church, 

My  nightingales,  my  scraps  of  Lincoln  green, 

And  hear  my  sermon!”  On  a window-seat 
He  stood,  against  the  diamonded  rich  panes 
In  the  old  oak  parlour  and,  throwing  back  his  hood, 
Who  should  it  be  but  Ben,  rare  Ben  himself? 

The  wild  troup  laughed  around  him,  some  a-sprawl 
On  tables,  kicking  parti-coloured  heels, 

Some  with  their  Marians  jigging  on  their  knees, 

And,  in  the  front  of  all,  the  motley  fool 
Cross-legged  upon  the  rushes. 

0,  I knew  him, — 

Will  Kemp,  the  player,  who  danced  from  London  town 
To  Norwich  in  nine  days  and  was  proclaimed 
Freeman  of  Marchaunt  Venturers  and  hedge-king 
Of  English  morrice-dancery  for  ever! 

His  nine-days’  wonder,  through  the  countryside 
Was  hawked  by  every  ballad-monger.  Kemp 
Raged  at  their  shake-rag  Muses.  None  but  I 
Guessed  ever  for  what  reason,  since  he  chose 
His  anticks  for  himself  and,  in  his  games, 

Was  more  than  most  May-fools  fantastical. 

I watched  his  thin  face,  as  he  rocked  and  crooned, 


THE  COMPANION  OF  A MILE 


343 


Shaking  the  squirrel  tails  around  his  ears; 

And,  out  of  all  the  players  I had  seen, 

His  face  was  quickest  through  its  clay  to  flash 
The  passing  mood.  Though  not  a muscle  stirred, 

The  very  skin  of  it  seemed  to  flicker  and  gleam 
With  little  summer  lightnings  of  the  soul 
At  every  fleeting  fancy.  For  a man 
So  quick  to  bleed  at  a pin-prick  or  to  leap 
Laughing  through  hell  to  save  a butterfly, 

This  world  was  difficult;  and  perchance  he  found 
In  his  fantastic  games  that  open  road 
Which  even  Will  Shakespeare  only  found  at  last 
In  motley  and  with  some  wild  straws  in  his  hair. 

But  “ Drawer!  drawer!”  bellowed  Friar  Ben, 

“ Make  ready  a righteous  breakfast  while  I preach ; — 
Tankards  of  nut-brown  ale,  and  cold  roast  beef, 
Cracknels,  old  cheese,  flaunes,  tarts  and  clotted  cream. 
Hath  any  a wish  not  circumscribed  by  these?” 


“A  white-pot  custard,  for  my  white-pot  queen,” 

Cried  Kemp,  waving  his  bauble,  “mark  this,  boy, 

A white-pot  custard  for  my  queen  of  May, — 

She  is  not  here,  but  that  concerns  not  thee! — 

A white-pot  Mermaid  custard,  with  a crust, 

Lashings  of  cream,  eggs,  apple-pulse  and  spice, 

A little  sugar  and  manchet  bread.  Away! 

Be  swift!” 

And  as  I bustled  to  and  fro, 

The  Friar  raised  his  big  brown  fists  again 
And  preached  in  mockery  of  the  Puritans 
Who  thought  to  strip  the  moonshine  wings  from  Mab^ 
Tear  down  the  May-poles,  rout  our  English  games, 

And  drive  all  beauty  back  into  the  sea. 

Then  laughter  and  chatter  and  clashing  tankards  drowned 
All  but  their  May-day  jollity  a- while. 

But,  as  their  breakfast  ended,  and  I sank 
Gasping  upon  a bench,  there  came  still  more 
Poets  and  players  crowding  into  the  room; 

And  one — I only  knew  him  as  Sir  John — 


344 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Waved  a great  ballad  at  Will  Kemp  and  laughed, 

“ Atonement,  Will,  atonement !” 

“What,”  groaned  Kemp, 
“Another  penny  poet?  How  many  lies 
Does  this  rogue  tell?  Sir,  I have  suffered  much 
From  these  Melpomenes  and  strawberry  quills, 

And  think  them  better  at  their  bloody  lines 
On  The  Blue  Lady.  Sir,  they  set  to  work 
At  seven  o’clock  in  the  morning,  the  same  hour 
That  I,  myself,  that’s  Cavaliero  Kemp, 

With  heels  of  feather  and  heart  of  cork,  began 
Frolickly  footing,  from  the  great  Lord  Mayor 
Of  London,  tow’rds  the  worshipful  Master  Mayor 
Of  Norwich.” 

“Nay,  Kemp,  this  is  a May-day  tune, 

A morrice  of  country  rhymes,  made  by  a poet 
Who  thought  it  shame  so  worthy  an  act  as  thine 
Should  wither  in  oblivion  if  the  Muse 
With  her  Castalian  showers  could  keep  it  green. 

And  while  the  fool  nid-nodded  all  in  time, 

Sir  John,  in  swinging  measure,  trolled  this  tale: — 


i 

With  Georgie  Sprat,  my  overseer,  and  Thomas  Slye,  my 
tabourer, 

And  William  Bee,  my  courier,  when  dawn  emblazed  the 
skies, 

I met  a tall  young  butcher  as  I danced  by  little  Sudbury, 
Head-master  o’  morrice-dancers  all,  high  headborough  of 
hyes. 


By  Sudbury,  by  Sudbury,  by  little  red-roofed  Sudbury, 

He  wished  to  dance  a mile  with  me!  I made  a courtly  bow : 

I fitted  him  with  morrice-bells,  with  treble,  bass  and  tenor 
bells, 

And  “ Tickle  your  tabor , Tom ,”  I cried,  “we’re  going  to  market 
now.” 


THE  COMPANION  OF  A MILE 


345 


And  rollicking  down  the  lanes  we  dashed,  and  frolicking  up 
the  hills  we  clashed, 

And  like  a sail  behind  me  flapped  his  great  white  frock 
a-while, 

Till,  with  a gasp,  he  sank  and  swore  that  he  could  dance  with 
me  no  more; 

And — over  the  hedge  a milk-maid  laughed,  Not  dance  with 
him  a mile? 

“You  lout!”  she  laughed,  “Fll  leave  my  pail,  and  dance  with 
him  for  cakes  and  ale! 

I fll  dance  a mile  for  love,”  she  laughed,  “and  win  my  wager, 
too. 

Your  feet  are  shod  and  mine  are  bare;  but  when  could  leather 
dance  on  air? 

A milk-maid’s  feet  can  fall  as  fair  and  light  as  falling  dew.” 

I fitted  her  with  morrice-bells,  with  treble,  bass  and  tenor 
bells: 

The  fore-bells,  as  I linked  them  at  her  throat,  how  soft 
they  sang! 

Green  linnets  in  a golden  nest,  they  chirped  and  trembled  on 
her  breast, 

And,  faint  as  elfin  blue-bells,  at  her  nut-brown  ankles  rang. 

I fitted  her  with  morrice-bells  that  sweetened  into  woodbine 
bells, 

And  trembled  as  I hung  them  there  and  crowned  her  sunny 
brow: 

“Strike  up,”  she  laughed,  “my  summer  king!”  And  all  her 
bells  began  to  ring, 

And  “ Tickle  your  tabor , Tom,”  I cried,  “ we're  going  to 
Sherwood  now!11 

When  cocks  were  crowing,  and  light  was  growing,  and  horns 
were  blowing,  and  milk-pails  flowing, 

We  swam  thro’  waves  of  emerald  gloom  along  a chestnut 
aisle, 

Then,  up  a shining  hawthorn-lane,  we  sailed  into  the  sun 
again, 

Will  Kemp  and  his  companion,  his  companion  of  a mile. 


346 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


“Truer  than  most,”  snarled  Kemp,  “but  mostly  lies! 
And  why  does  he  forget  the  miry  lanes  v 

By  Brainford  with  thick  woods  on  either  side, 

And  the  deep  holes,  where  I could  find  no  ease 
But  skipped  up  to  my  waist?”  A crackling  laugh 
Broke  from  his  lips  which,  if  he  had  not  worn 
The  cap  and  bells,  would  scarce  have  roused  the  mirth 
Of  good  Sir  John,  who  roundly  echoed  it, 

Then  waved  his  hand  and  said,  “Nay,  but  he  treats 
Your  morrice  in  the  spirit  of  Lucian,  Will, 

Who  thought  that  dancing  was  no  mushroom  growth, 

But  sprung  from  the  beginning  of  the  world 
When  Love  persuaded  earth,  air,  water,  fire, 

And  all  the  jarring  elements  to  move 
In  measure.  Right  to  the  heart  of  it,  my  lad, 

The  song  goes,  though  the  skin  mislike  you  so.” 

“Nay,  an  there’s  more  of  it,  I’ll  sing  it,  too! 

5Tis  a fine  tale,  Sir  John,  I have  it  by  heart, 

Although  ’tis  lies  throughout.”  Up  leapt  Will  Kemp, 
And  crouched  and  swayed,  and  swung  his  bauble  round, 
Making  the  measure  as  they  trolled  the  tale, 

Chanting  alternately,  each  answering  each. 

ii 

The  Fool 

The  tabor  fainted  far  behind  us,  but  her  feet  that  day 
They  beat  a rosier  morrice  o’er  the  fairy-circled  green. 

Sir  John 

And  o’er  a field  of  buttercups,  a field  of  lambs  and  buttercups, 
We  danced  along  a cloth  of  gold,  a summer  king  and  queen! 

The  Fool 

And  straying  we  went,  and  swaying  we  went,  with  lambkins 
round  us  playing  we  went; 

Her  face  uplift  to  drink  the  sun,  and  not  for  me  her  smile, 

We  danced,  a king  and  queen  of  May,  upon  a fleeting  holy- 
day, 

But  0,  she’d  won  her  wager,  my  companion  of  a mile! 


THE  COMPANION  OF  A MILF 


347 


Sir  John 

Her  rosy  lips  they  never  spoke,  though  every  rosy  foot-fall 
broke 

The  dust,  the  dust  to  Eden-bloom;  and,  past  the  throb- 
bing blue, 

All  ordered  to  her  rhythmic  feet,  the  stars  were  dancing  with 
my  sweet, 

And  all  the  world  a morrice-dance! 

The  Fool 

She  knew  not;  but  I knew! 

Love  like  Amphion  with  his  lyre,  made  all  the  elements  con- 
spire 4 

To  build  His  world  of  music.  All  in  rhythmic  rank  and  file, 

I saw  them  in  their  cosmic  dance,  catch  hands  across,  retire, 
advance, 

For  me  and  my  companion,  my  companion  of  a mile! 

Sir  John 

The  little  leaves  on  every  tree,  the  rivers  winding  to  the  sea, 

The  swinging  tides,  the  wheeling  winds,  the  rolling  heavens 
above, 

Around  the  May-pole  Igdrasil,  they  worked  the  Morrice- 
master’s  will, 

Persuaded  into  measure  by  the  all-creative  Love. 

That  hour  I saw,  from  depth  to  height,  this  wildering  universe 
unite! 

The  lambs  of  God  around  us  and  His  passion  in  every 
flower! 


The  Fool 

His  grandeur  in  the  dust,  His  dust  a blaze  of  blinding  majesty, 
And  all  His  immortality  in  one  poor  mortal  hour. 

And  Death  was  but  a change  of  key  in  Life  the  golden  melody, 
And  Time  became  Eternity,  and  Heaven  a fleeting  smile; 
For  all  was  each  and  each  was  all,  and  all  a wedded  unity, 
Her  heart  in  mine,  and  mine  in  my  companion  of  a mile 


348 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Thwack ! Thwack!  He  whirled  his  bauble  round  about, 
“This  fellow  beats  them  all,”  he  cried,  “the  worst 
Those  others  wrote  was  that  I hopped  from  York 
To  Paris  with  a mortar  on  my  head. 

This  fellow  sends  me  leaping  through  the  clouds 
To  buss  the  moon!  The  best  is  yet  to  come; 

Strike  up,  Sir  John!  Ha!  ha!  You  know  no  more?” 
Kemp  leapt  upon  a table.  “Clear  the  way, 

He  cried,  and  with  a great  stamp  of  his  foot 
And  a wild  crackling  laugh,  drew  all  to  hark. 

“With  hey  and  ho,  through  thick  and  thin, 

The  hobby-horse  is  forgotten. 

But  I must  finish  what  I begin, 

Tho'  all  the  roads  be  rotten. 

“By  all  those  twenty  thousand  chariots,  Ben, 

Hear  this  true  tale  they  shall!  Now,  let  me  see, 

Where  was  Will  Kemp?  Bussing  the  moon's  pale  mouth? 
Ah,  yes!”  He  crouched  above  the  listening  throng, — 
“Good  as  a play ,”  I heard  one  whispering  quean, — 

And,  waving  his  bauble,  shuffling  with  his  feet 
In  a dance  that  marked  the  time,  he  sank  his  voice 
As  if  to  breathe  great  secrets,  and  so  sang: — 


hi 


At  Melford  town,  at  Melford  town,  at  little  grey-roofed 
Melford  town, 

A long  mile  from  Sudbury,  upon  the  village  green, 

We  danced  into  a merry  rout  of  country-folk  that  skipt  about 
A hobby-horse,  a May-pole,  and  a laughing  white-pot  queen. 


They  thronged  about  us  as  we  stayed,  and  there  I gave  my 
sunshine  maid 

An  English  crown  for  cakes  and  ale — her  dancing  was  so 
true! 

And  “Nay,”  she  said,  “I  danced  my  mile  for  love!”  I 
answered  with  a smile, 

“'Tis  but  a silver  token,  lass,  thou'st  won  that  wager,  too.” 


THE  COMPANION  OF  A MILE 


349 


I took  my  leash  of  morrice-bells,  my  treble,  bass  and  tenor 
bells, 

They  pealed  like  distant  marriage-bells!  And  up  came 
William  Bee 

With  Georgie  Sprat,  my  overseer,  and  Thomas  Slye,  my 
tabourer, 

li  Farewell,”  she  laughed,  and  vanished  with  a Suffolk 
courtesie. 

I leapt  away  to  Rockland,  and  from  Rockland  on  to  Hing- 
ham, 

From  Hingham  on  to  Norwich,  sirs!  I hardly  heard 
a-while 

The  throngs  that  followed  after,  with  their  shouting  and  their 
laughter, 

For  a shadow  danced  beside  me,  my  companion  of  a mile! 


At  Norwich,  by  St.  Giles  his  gate,  I entered,  and  the  Mayor 
in  state, 

With  all  the  rosy  knights  and  squires  for  twenty  miles  about, 

With  trumpets  and  with  minstrelsy,  was  waiting  there  to 
welcome  me; 

And,  as  I skipt  into  the  street,  the  City  raised  a shout. 

They  gave  me  what  I did  not  seek.  I fed  on  roasted  swans  a 
week! 

They  pledged  me  in  their  malmsey,  and  they  lined  me 
warm  with  ale! 

They  sleeked  my  skin  with  red-deer  pies,  and  all  that  runs  and 
swims  and  flies; 

But,  through  the  clashing  wine-cups,  O,  I heard  her  clanking 
pail. 


And,  rising  from  his  crimson  chair,  the  worshipful  and  portly 
Mayor 

Bequeathed  me  forty  shillings  every  year  that  I should  live, 
With  five  good  angels  in  my  hand  that  I might  drink  while  I 
could  stand! 

They  gave  me  golden  angels!  What  I lacked  they  could  not 
give. 


350 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


They  made  Will  Kemp,  thenceforward,  sirs,  Freeman  of 
Marchaunt  Venturers! 

They  hoped  that  I would  dance  again  from  Norwich  up  to 
York; 

Then  they  asked  me,  all  together,  had  I met  with  right  May 
weather, 

And  they  praised  my  heels  of  feather,  and  my  heart,  my 
heart  of  cork. 


As  I came  home  by  Sudbury,  by  little  red-roofed  Sudbury, 
I waited  for  my  bare-foot  maid,  among  her  satin  kine! 

I heard  a peal  of  wedding-bells,  of  treble,  bass  and  tenor  bells: 
“Ring  well/’  I cried,  “this  bridal  mom!  You  soon  shall 
ring  for  mine!” 

I found  her  foot-prints  in  the  grass,  just  where  she  stood  and 
saw  me  pass. 

I stood  within  her  own  sweet  field  and  waited  for  my  may. 
I laughed.  The  dance  has  turned  about!  I stand  within: 
shell  pass  without, 

And — down  the  road  the  wedding  came , the  road  I danced  that 
day! 

I saw  the  wedding-folk  go  by,  with  laughter  and  with  minstrelsy, 
1 gazed  across  her  own  sweet  hedge,  I caught  her  happy  smile, 
1 saw  the  tall  young  butcher  pass  to  little  red-roofed  Sudbury, 
His  bride  upon  his  arm,  my  lost  companion  of  a mile . 

Down  from  his  table  leapt  the  motley  Fool. 

His  bladder  bounced  from  head  to  ducking  head, 

His  crackling  laugh  rang  high, — “Sir  John,  I danced 
In  February,  and  the  song  says  May! 

A fig  for  all  your  poets,  liars  all! 

Away  to  Fenchurch  Street,  lasses  and  lads, 

They  hold  high  revel  there  this  May-day  morn. 

Away!”  The  mad-cap  throng  echoed  the  cry. 

He  drove  them  with  his  bauble  through  the  door; 

Then,  as  the  last  gay  kerchief  fluttered  out 
He  gave  one  little  sharp  sad  lingering  cry 
As  of  a lute-string  breaking.  He  turned  back 


BIG  BLN 


351 


And  threw  himself  along  a low  dark  bench; 

His  jingling  cap  was  crumpled  in  his  fist, 

And,  as  he  lay  there,  all  along  Cheapside 
The  happy  voices  of  his  comrades  rang: — 

Out  of  the  woods  we’ll  dance  and  sing 
Under  the  morning-star  of  Spring, 

Into  the  town  with  our  fresh  boughs 
And  knock  at  every  sleeping  house, 

Not  sighing, 

Or  crying, 

Though  Love  knows  no  denying! 

Then,  round  your  summer  queen  and  kin**, 
Come,  young  lovers,  dance  and  sing, 

Dance  and  sing! 

His  motley  shoulders  heaved.  I touched  his  arm, 
“What  ails  you,  sir?”  He  raised  his  thin  white  fae®5 
Wet  with  the  May-dew  still.  A few  stray  petals 
Clung  in  his  tangled  hair.  He  leapt  to  his  feet, 
“’Twas  February,  but  I danced,  boy,  danced 
In  May!  Can  you  do  this?”  Forward  he  bent 
Over  his  feet,  and  shuffled  it,  heel  and  toe, 

Out  of  the  Mermaid,  singing  his  old  song — 

A-maying, 

A-playing, 

For  Love  knows  no  gain-saying! 

Wisdom  trips  not?  Even  so, — 

Come,  young  lovers,  trip  and  go, 

Trip  and  go. 

Five  minutes  later,  over  the  roaring  Strand, 

“ Chorus!  ” I heard  him  crow,  and  half  the  town 
Reeled  into  music  under  his  crimson  comb. 

VI 

BIG  BEN 

Gods,  what  a hubbub  shook  our  cobwebs  out 
The  day  that  Chapman,  Marston  and  our  Ber 
Waited  ki  Newgate  for  the  hangman’s  hands. 


352 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Chapman  and  Marston  had  been  flung  there  first 
For  some  imagined  insult  to  the  Scots 
In  Eastward  Ho , the  play  they  wrote  with  Ben. 

But  Ben  was  famous  now,  and  our  brave  law 
Would  fain  have  winked  and  passed  the  big  man  by. 
The  lesser  men  had  straightway  been  condemned 
To  have  their  ears  cut  off,  their  noses  slit, 

With  other  tortures. 

Ben  had  risen  at  that! 

He  gripped  his  cudgel,  called  for  a quart  of  ale, 

Then  like  Helvellyn  with  his  rocky  face 

And  mountain-belly,  he  surged  along  Cheapside, 

Snorting  with  wrath,  and  rolled  into  the  gaol, 

To  share  the  punishment. 

“There  is  my  mark! 

'Tis  not  the  first  time  you  have  branded  me,” 

Said  our  big  Ben,  and  thrust  his  broad  left  thumb 
Branded  with  T for  Tyburn,  into  the  face 
Of  every  protest.  “That's  the  mark  you  gave  me 
Because  I killed  my  man  in  Spitalfields, 

A duel  honest  as  any  your  courtiers  fight. 

But  I was  no  Fitzdotterel,  bore  no  gules 
And  azure,  robbed  no  silk- worms  for  my  hose, 

I was  Ben  Jonson,  out  of  Annandale, 

Bricklayer  in  common  to  the  good  Lord  God. 

You  branded  me.  I am  Ben  Jonson  still. 

You  cannot  rub  it  out.” 

The  Mermaid  Inn 

Buzzed  like  a hornet's  nest,  upon  the  day 
Fixed  for  their  mutilation.  And  the  stings 
Were  ready,  too;  for  rapiers  flashed  and  clashed 
Among  the  tankards.  Dekker  was  there,  and  Nash, 
Brome  ( Jonson 's  body-servant,  whom  he  taught 
His  art  of  verse  and,  more  than  that,  to  love  him,) 
And  half  a dozen  more.  They  planned  to  meet 
The  prisoners  going  to  Tyburn,  and  attempt 
A desperate  rescue. 

All  at  once  we  heard 

A great  gay  song  come  marching  down  the  street, 

A single  voice,  and  twenty  marching  men, 

Then  the  full  chorus,  twenty  voices  strong: — 


BIG  BEN 


353 


The  prentice  whistles  at  break  of  day 
All  under  fair  roofs  and  towers, 

When  the  old  Cheape  openeth  every  way 
Her  little  sweet  inns  like  flowers; 

And  he  sings  like  a lark,  both  early  and  late, 

To  think,  if  his  house  take  fire, 

At  the  good  Green  Dragon  in  Bishopsgate 
He  may  drink  to  his  heart's  desire. 

Chorus:  Or  sit  at  his  ease  in  the  old  Cross  Keys 
And  drink  to  his  heart's  desire. 

But  I,  as  I walk  by  Red  Rose  Lane , 

Tho'  it  warmeth  my  heart  to  see 
The  Swan , The  Golden  Hynde , and  The  Crane , 

With  the  door  set  wide  for  me; 

Tho'  Signs  like  daffodils  paint  the  strand 
When  the  thirsty  bees  begin, 

Of  all  the  good  taverns  in  Engeland 
My  choice  is — The  Mermaid  Inn . 

Chorus:  There  is  much  to  be  said  for  The  Saracens  Head , 

But  my  choice  is  The  Mermaid  Inn. 

Into  the  tavern  they  rushed,  these  roaring  boys. 

“Now  broach  your  ripest  and  your  best,"  they  cried. 

“All's  well!  They  are  all  released!  They  are  on  the  way! 
Old  Camden  and  young  Selden  worked  the  trick. 

Where  is  Dame  Dimpling?  Where's  our  jolly  hostess? 

Tell  her  the  Mermaid  Tavern  will  have  guests: 

We  are  sent  to  warn  her.  She  must  raid  Cook's  Row, 

And  make  their  ovens  roar.  Nobody  dines 

This  day  with  old  Duke  Humphrey.  Red-deer  pies, 

Castles  of  almond  crust,  a shield  of  brawn 
Big  as  the  nether  millstone,  barrels  of  wine, 

Three  roasted  peacocks!  Ben  is  on  the  way!" 

Then  all  the  rafters  rang  with  song  again: — 

There  was  a Prince — long  since,  long  since ! — 

To  East  Cheape  did  resort, 

For  that  he  loved  The  Blue  Boar’s  Head 
Far  better  than  Crown  or  Court; 


23 


354 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


But  old  King  Harry  in  Westminster 
Hung  up,  for  all  to  see, 

Three  bells  of  power  in  St.  Stephen’s  Tower, 
Yea,  bells  of  a thousand  and  three. 

Chorus:  Three  bells  of  power  in  a timber  tower, 

Thirty  thousand  and  three. 

For  Harry  the  Fourth  was  a godly  king 
And  loved  great  godly  bells! 

He  bade  them  ring  and  he  bade  them  swing 
Till  a man  might  hear  nought  else. 

In  every  tavern  it  soured  the  sack 
With  discord  and  with  din; 

But  they  drowned  it  all  in  a madrigal 
Like  this,  at  The  Mermaid  Inn. 

Chorus:  They  drowned  it  all  in  a madrigal 

Like  this,  at  The  Mermaid  Inn. 

“But  how  did  Selden  work  it?” — “Nobody  knows. 
They  will  be  here  anon.  Better  ask  Will. 

He’s  the  magician!” — “Ah,  here  comes  Dame  Dimpling! 
And,  into  the  rollicking  chaos  our  good  Dame 
— A Dame  of  only  two  and  thirty  springs — 

All  lavender  and  roses  and  white  kerchief, 

Bustled,  to  lay  the  tables. 

Fletcher  flung 

His  arm  around  her  waist  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

But  all  she  said  was,  uOne — two — three — four — five — 

Six  at  a pinch , in  yonder  window-seat .” 

“A  health  to  our  Dame  Dimpling,”  Beaumont  cried, 
And  Dekker,  leaping  on  the  old  black  settle, 

Led  all  their  tumult  into  a song  again: — 

What  is  the  Mermaid’s  merriest  toast? 

Our  hostess — good  Dame  Dimpling! 

Who  is  it  rules  the  Mermaid  roast? 

Who  is  it  bangs  the  Mermaid  host, 

Tho’  her  hands  be  soft  as  her  heart  almost? 

Dame  Dimpling! 


BIG  BEN 


355 


She  stands  at  the  board  in  her  fresh  blue  gown 
With  the  sleeves  tucked  up — Dame  Dimpling! 

She  rolls  the  white  dough  up  and  down 
And  her  pies  are  crisp,  and  her  eyes  are  brown. 

So — she  is  the  Queen  of  all  this  town, — 

Dame  Dimpling! 

Her  sheets  are  white  as  black-thorn  bloom, 

White  as  her  neck,  Dame  Dimpling! 

Her  lavender  sprigs  in  the  London  gloom 
Make  every  little  bridal-room 
A country  nook  of  fresh  perfume, — 

Dame  Dimpling! 

She  wears  white  lace  on  her  dark  brown  hair: 

And  a rose  on  her  breast,  Dame  Dimpling! 

And  who  can  show  you  a foot  as  fair 

Or  an  ankle  as  neat  when  she  climbs  the  stair, 

Taper  in  hand,  and  head  in  the  air, 

And  a rose  in  her  cheek? — O,  past  compare, 

Dame  Dimpling! 

“But  don’t  forget  those  oyster-pies,”  cried  Lyly. 

“Nor  the  roast  beef,”  roared  Dekker.  “Prove  yourself 
The  Muse  of  meat  and  drink.” 

There  was  a shout 

In  Bread  Street,  and  our  windows  all  swung  wide, 

Six  heads  at  each. 

Nat  Field  bestrode  our  sign 
And  kissed  the  painted  Mermaid  on  her  lips, 

Then  waved  his  tankard. 

“Here  they  come,”  he  cried. 
“Camden  and  Selden,  Chapman  and  Marston,  too, 

And  half  Will’s  company  with  our  big  Ben 
Riding  upon  their  shoulders.” 

“Look!”  cried  Dekker, 

“But  where  is  Atlas  now?  0,  let  them  have  it! 

A thumping  chorus,  lads!  Let  the  roof  crack!” 

And  all  the  Mermaid  clashed  and  banged  again 
In  thunderous  measure  to  the  marching  tune 
That  rolled  down  Bread  Street,  forty  voices  strong: — 


356 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


At  Yjrres  Inn , by  Wring-wren  Lane, 

Old  John  of  Gaunt  would  dine: 

He  scarce  had  opened  an  oyster  or  twain, 

Or  drunk  one  flagon  of  wine, 

When,  all  along  the  Vintry  Ward, 

He  heard  the  trumpets  blow, 

And  a voice  that  roared — “If  thou  love  thy  lord, 
Tell  John  of  Gaunt  to  go!” 

Chorus : A great  voice  roared — “If  thou  love  thy  lord, 

Tell  John  of  Gaunt  to  go!” 

Then  into  the  room  rushed  Haviland 
That  fair  fat  Flemish  host, 

“They  are  marching  hither  with  sword  and  brand, 
Ten  thousand  men — almost! 

It  is  these  oysters  or  thy  sweet  life, 

Thy  blood  or  the  best  of  the  bin!” — 

“Proud  Pump,  avaunt!”  quoth  John  of  Gaunt, 

“I  will  dine  at  The  Mermaid  Inn!” 

Chorus:  “Proud  Pump,  avaunt!”  quoth  John  of  Gaunt, 
“There  is  wine  at  The  Mermaid  Inn!” 

And  in  came  Ben  like  a great  galleon  poised 
High  on  the  white  crest  of  a shouting  wave, 

And  then  the  feast  began.  The  fragrant  steam 
As  from  the  kitchens  of  Olympus  drew 
A throng  of  ragged  urchins  to  our  doors. 

Ben  ordered  them  a castellated  pie 
That  rolled  a cloud  around  them  where  they  sat 
Munching  upon  the  cobblestones.  Our  casements 
Dripped  with  the  golden  dews  of  Helicon; 

And,  under  the  warm  feast  our  cellarage 
Gurgled  and  foamed  in  the  delicious  cool 
With  crimson  freshets — 

“Tell  us,”  cried  Nat  Field, 
When  pipes  began  to  puff.  “How  did  you  work  it?” 
Camden  chuckled  and  tugged  his  long  white  beard. 
“Out  of  the  mouth  of  babes,”  he  said  and  shook 
His  head  at  Selden!  “0,  young  man,  young  man, 
There's  a career  before  you!  Selden  did  it. 


BIG  BEN 


357 


Take  my  advice,  my  children.  Make  young  Selden 
Solicitor-general  to  the  Mermaid  Inn. 

That  rosy  silken  smile  of  his  conceals 
A scholar!  Yes,  that  suckling  lawyer  there 
Puts  my  grey  beard  to  shame.  His  courteous  airs 
And  silken  manners  hide  the  nimblest  wit 
That  ever  trimmed  a sail  to  catch  the  wind 
Of  courtly  favour:  Mark  my  words  now,  Ben, 

That  youth  will  sail  right  up  against  the  wind 
By  skilful  tacking.  But  you  run  it  fine, 

Selden,  you  run  it  fine.  Take  my  advice 
And  don’t  be  too  ironical,  my  boy, 

Or  even  the  King  will  see  it.” 

He  chuckled  again. 
“But  tell  them  of  your  tractate!” 

“Here  it  is,” 

Quoth  Selden,  twisting  a lighted  paper  spill, 

Then,  with  his  round  cherubic  face  aglow 
Lit  his  long  silver  pipe, 

“Why,  first,”  he  said, 
“Camden  being  Clarencieux  King-at-arms, 

He  read  the  King  this  little  tract  I wrote 
Against  tobacco.”  And  the  Mermaid  roared 
With  laughter.  “Well,  you  went  the  way  to  hang 
All  three  of  them,”  cried  Lyly,  “and,  as  for  Ben, 
His  Trinidado  goes  to  bed  with  him.” 

“Green  gosling,  quack  no  more,”  Selden  replied, 
Smiling  that  rosy  silken  smile  anew. 

“The  King’s  a critic ! When  have  critics  known 
The  poet  from  his  creatures,  God  from  me? 

How  many  cite  Polonius  to  their  sons 

And  call  it  Shakespeare?  Well,  I took  my  text 

From  sundry  creatures  of  our  great  big  Ben, 

And  called  it  ‘ Jonson.’ 

Camden  read  it  out 

Without  the  flicker  of  an  eye.  His  beard 
Saved  us,  I think.  The  King  admired  his  text. 

4 There  is  a man,’  he  read,  ‘ lies  at  death’s  door 
Thro’  taking  of  tobacco.  Yesterday 
He  voided  a bushel  of  soot.’ 


358 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


1 God  bless  my  soul, 

A bushel  of  soot!  Think  of  it!’  said  the  King. 

‘The  man  who  wrote  those  great  and  splendid  words/ 
Camden  replied, — I had  prepared  his  case 
Carefully — ‘lies  in  Newgate  prison,  sire. 

His  nose  and  ears  await  the  hangman’s  knife/ 

‘Ah/  said  the  shrewd  King,  goggling  his  great  eyes 
Cannity.  ‘Did  he  not  defame  the  Scots?’ 

‘That’s  true/  said  Camden,  like  a man  that  hears 
Truth  for  the  first  time.  ‘O  ay,  he  defamed  ’em/ 
The  King  said,  very  wisely,  once  again. 

‘Ah,  but/  says  Camden,  like  a man  that  strives 
With  more  than  mortal  wit,  ‘ only  such  Scots 
As  flout  your  majesty,  and  take  tobacco. 

He  is  a Scot,  himself,  and  hath  the  gift 
Of  preaching.’  Then  we  gave  him  Jonson’s  lines 
Against  Virginia.  1 Neither  do  thou  lust 
After  that  tawny  weed;  for  who  can  tell, 

Before  the  gathering  and  the  making  up, 

What  alligarta  may  have  spawned  thereon / 

Or  words  to  that  effect. 


‘Magneeficent!’ 

Spluttered  the  King — ‘who  knows?  Who  knows,  indeed? 
That’s  a grand  touch,  that  Alligarta,  Camden!’ 

‘The  Scot  who  wrote  those  great  and  splendid  words/ 

Said  Camden,  ‘languishes  in  Newgate,  sire. 

His  ears  and  nose — ’ 


And  there,  as  we  arranged 
With  Inigo  Jones,  the  ladies  of  the  court 
Assailed  the  King  in  tears.  Their  masque  and  ball 
Would  all  be  ruined.  All  their  Grecian  robes, 

Procured  at  vast  expense,  were  wrasted  now. 

The  masque  was  not  half-written.  Master  Jones 
Had  lost  his  poets.  They  were  all  in  gaol. 

Their  noses  and  their  ears  .... 

‘God  bless  my  soul/ 

Spluttered  the  King,  goggling  his  eyes  again, 

‘What  d’you  make  of  it,  Camden?’ — 


BIG  BEN 


359 


‘ 1 should  say 

A Puritan  plot,  sire;  for  these  justices — 

Who  love  tobacco — use  their  law,  it  seems, 

To  flout  your  Majesty  at  every  turn. 

If  this  continue,  sire,  there'll  not  be  left 
A loyal  ear  or  nose  in  all  your  realm/ 

At  that,  our  noble  monarch  well-nigh  swooned. 

He  hunched  his  body,  padded  as  it  was 
Against  the  assassin's  knife,  six  inches  deep 
With  great  green  quilts,  wagged  his  enormous  head, 
Then,  in  a dozen  words,  he  wooed  destruction : 

4 It  is  presumption  and  a high  contempt 
In  subjects  to  dispute  what  kings  can  do,' 

He  whimpered.  ‘Even  as  it  is  blasphemy 
To  thwart  the  will  of  God.' 

He  waved  his  hand, 

And  rose.  ‘These  men  must  be  released,  at  once!' 
Then,  as  I think,  to  seek  a safer  place, 

He  waddled  from  the  room,  his  rickety  legs 
Doubling  beneath  that  great  green  feather-bed 
He  calls  his  ‘person.' — I shall  dream  to-night 
Of  spiders,  Camden. — But  in  half  an  hour, 

Inigo  Jones  was  armed  with  Right  Divine 
To  save  such  ears  and  noses  as  the  ball 
Required  for  its  perfection.  Think  of  that! 

And  let  this  earthly  ball  remember,  too, 

That  Chapman,  Marston,  and  our  great  big  Ben 
Owe  their  poor  adjuncts  to — ten  Grecian  robes 
And  ‘ Jonson'  on  tobacco!  England  loves 
Her  poets,  0,  supremely,  when  they're  dead." 

“But  Ben  has  narrowly  escaped  her  love,"  • 

Said  Chapman  gravely. 

“What  do  you  mean?"  said  Lodge. 
And,  as  he  spoke,  there  was  a sudden  hush. 

A tall  gaunt  woman  with  great  burning  eyes, 

And  white  hair  blown  back  softly  from  a face 
Ethereally  fierce,  as  might  have  looked 
Cassandra  in  old  age,  stood  at  the  door. 

“Where  is  my  Ben?"  she  said. 

“Mother!"  cried  Ben. 
He  rose  and  caught  her  in  his  mighty  arms. 


360 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Her  labour-reddened,  long-boned  hands  entwined 
Behind  his  neck. 

“She  brought  this  to  the  gaol,” 

Said  Chapman  quietly,  tossing  a phial  across 
To  Camden.  “And  he  meant  to  take  it,  too, 

Before  the  hangman  touched  him.  Half  an  hour 
And  you’d  have  been  too  late  to  save  big  Ben. 

He  has  lived  too  much  in  ancient  Rome  to  love 
A slit  nose  and  the  pillory.  He’d  have  wrapped 
His  purple  round  him  like  an  emperor. 

I think  she  had  another  for  herself.” 

“There’s  Roman  blood  in  both  of  them,”  said  Dekker, 
“Don’t  look.  She  is  weeping  now.”  And,  while  Ben  held 
That  gaunt  old  body  sobbing  against  his  heart, 

Dekker,  to  make  her  think  they  paid  no  heed, 

Began  to  sing;  and  very  softly  now, 

Full  forty  voices  echoed  the  refrain: — 

The  Cardinal's  Hat  is  a very  good  inn, 

And  so  is  The  Puritan's  Head ; 

But  I know  a sign  of  a Wine,  a Wine 
That  is  better  when  all  is  said. 

It  is  whiter  than  Venus,  redder  than  Mars, 

It  was  old  when  the  world  begun; 

For  all  good  inns  are  moons  or  stars 
But  The  Mermaid  is  their  Sun. 

Chorus:  They  are  all  alight  like  moons  in  the  night, 

But  The  M ermaid  is  their  Sun. 

Therefore,  when  priest  or  parson  cries 
That  inns  like  flowers  increase, 

I say  that  mine  inn  is  a church  likewise, 

And  I say  to  them  “Be  at  peace!” 

An  host  may  gather  in  dark  St.  Paul’s 
To  salve  their  souls  from  sin; 

But  the  Light  may  be  where  “two  or  three” 

Drink  Wine  in  The  Mermaid  Inn. 

Chorus:  The  Light  may  be  where  “two  or  three” 

Drink  Wine  in  The  Mermaid  Inn. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  A QUEEN 


361 


VII 

THE  BURIAL  OF  A QUEEN 

’Twas  on  an  All  Souls'  Eve  that  our  good  Inn 
— Whereof,  for  ten  years  now,  myself  was  host — 

Heard  and  took  part  in  its  most  eerie  tale. 

It  was  a bitter  night,  and  master  Ben, 

— His  hair  now  flecked  with  grey,  though  youth  still  fired 
His  deep  and  ageless  eyes, — in  the  old  oak-chair, 

Over  the  roaring  hearth,  puffed  at  his  pipe; 

A little  sad,  as  often  I found  him  now 
Remembering  vanished  faces.  Yet  the  years 
Brought  others  round  him.  Wreaths  of  Heliochrise 
Gleamed  still  in  that  great  tribe  of  Benjamin, 

Burned  still  across  the  malmsey  and  muscadel. 

Chapman  and  Browne,  Herrick, — a name  like  thyme 
Crushed  into  sweetness  by  a bare-foot  maid 
Milking,  at  dewy  dawn,  in  Elfin-land, — 

These  three  came  late,  and  sat  in  a little  room 
Aside,  supping  together,  on  one  great  pie, 

Whereof  both  crust  and  coffin  were  prepared 
By  master  Herrick's  receipt,  and  all  washed  down 
With  mighty  cups  of  sack.  This  left  with  Ben, 

John  Ford,  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  brooding  aloof, 

Drayton  and  Lodge  and  Drummond  of  Hawthornden. 

Suddenly,  in  the  porch,  I heard  a sound 
Of  iron  that  grated  on  the  flags.  A spade 
And  pick  came  edging  through  the  door. 

“0,  room! 

Room  for  the  master-craftsman,"  muttered  Ford, 

And  grey  old  sexton  Scarlet  hobbled  in. 

He  shuffled  off  the  snow  that  clogged  his  boots, 

— On  my  clean  rushes! — brushed  it  from  his  cloak 
Of  Northern  Russet,  wiped  his  rheumatic  knees, 

Blew  out  his  lanthorn,  hung  it  on  a nail, 

Leaned  his  rude  pick  and  spade  against  the  wall, 

Flung  back  his  rough  frieze  hood,  flapped  his  gaunt  arms, 
And  called  for  ale. 


362 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


“Come  to  the  fire,”  said  Lodge. 

“Room  for  the  wisest  counsellor  of  kings, 

The  kindly  sage  that  puts  us  all  to  bed, 

And  tucks  us  up  beneath  the  grass-green  quilt.” 

“Plenty  of  work,  eh  Timothy?”  said  Ben. 

“Work?  Where's  my  liquor?  0,  ay,  there's  work  to  spare,” 
Old  Scarlet  croaked,  then  quaffed  his  creaming  stoup, 

While  Ben  said  softly — “Pity  you  could  not  spare, 

You  and  your  Scythe-man,  some  of  the  golden  lads 
That  I have  seen  here  in  the  Mermaid  Inn!” 

Then,  with  a quiet  smile  he  shook  his  head 

And  turned  to  master  Drummond  of  Hawthornden. 

“Well,  songs  are  good;  but  flesh  and  blood  are  better. 

The  grey  old  tomb  of  Horace  glows  for  me 

Across  the  centuries,  with  one  little  fire 

Lit  by  a girl's  light  hand.”  Then,  under  breath, 

Yet  with  some  passion,  he  murmured  this  brief  rhyme: — 


i 

Dulce  ridentem , laughing  through  the  ages, 

Dulce  loquentem , 0,  fairer  far  to  me, 

Rarer  than  the  wisdom  of  all  his  golden  pages 
Floats  the  happy  laughter  of  his  vanished  Lalage. 


ii 

Dulce  loquentem , — we  hear  it  and  we  know  it. 

Dulce  ridentem , — so  musical  and  low. 

“Mightier  than  marble  is  my  song!”  Ah,  did  the  poet 
Know  why  little  Lalage  was  mightier  even  so? 


in 


Dulce  ridentem , — through  all  the  years  that  sever, 

Clear  as  o'er  yon  hawthorn  hedge  we  heard  her  passing 
by  — 

Lalagen  amabo , — a song  may  live  for  ever 
Dulce  loquentem , — but  Lalage  must  die. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  A QUEEN 


363 


“I’d  like  to  learn  that  rhyme,”  the  sexton  said. 

“I’ve  a fine  memory  too.  You  start  me  now, 

I’d  keep  it  up  all  night  with  ancient  ballads.” 

And  then — a strange  thing  happened.  I saw  John  Ford 
“With  folded  arms  and  melancholy  hat” 

(As  in  our  Mermaid  jest  he  still  would  sit) 

Watching  old  Scarlet  like  a man  in  trance. 

The  sexton  gulped  his  ale  and  smacked  his  lips, 

Then  croaked  again — “0,  ay,  there’s  work  to  spare, 

We  fills  ’em  faster  than  the  spades  can  dig,” 

And,  all  at  once,  the  lights  burned  low  and  blue. 

Ford  leaned  right  forward,  with  his  grim  black  eyes 
Widening. 

“Why,  that’s  a marvellous  ring!”  he  said, 
And  pointed  to  the  sexton’s  gnarled  old  hand 
Spread  on  the  black  oak-table  like  the  claw 
Of  some  great  bird  of  prey.  “A  ruby  worth 
The  ransom  of  a queen!”  The  fire  leapt  up! 

The  sexton  stared  at  him; 

Then  stretched  his  hand  out,  with  its  blue-black  nails, 

Full  in  the  light,  a grim  earth-coloured  hand, 

But  bare  as  it  was  born. 

“There  was  a ring! 

I could  have  sworn  it!  Red  as  blood!”  cried  Ford. 

And  Ben  and  Lodge  and  Drummond  of  Hawthornden 

All  stared  at  him.  For  such  a silent  soul 

Was  master  Ford  that,  when  he  suddenly  spake, 

It  struck  the  rest  as  dumb  as  if  the  Sphinx 

Had  opened  its  cold  stone  lips.  He  would  sit  mute 

Brooding,  aloof,  for  hours,  his  cloak  around  him, 

A staff  between  his  knees,  as  if  prepared 

For  a long  journey,  a lonely  pilgrimage 

To  some  dark  tomb;  a strange  and  sorrowful  soul, 

Yet  not — as  many  thought  him — harsh  or  hard, 

But  of  a most  kind  patience.  Though  he  wrote 
In  blood,  they  say,  the  blood  came  from  his  heart; 

And  all  the  sufferings  of  this  world  he  took 
To  his  own  soul,  and  bade  them  pasture  there* 

Till  out  of  his  compassion,  he  became 
A monument  of  bitterness.  He  rebelled; 

And  so  fell  short  of  that  celestial  height 


364 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Whereto  the  greatest  only  climb,  who  stand 
By  Shakespeare,  and  accept  the  Eternal  Law. 

These  find,  in  law,  firm  footing  for  the  soul, 

The  strength  that  binds  the  stars,  and  reins  the  sea, 

The  base  of  being,  the  pillars  of  the  world, 

The  pledge  of  honour,  the  pure  cord  of  love, 

The  form  of  truth,  the  golden  floors  of  heaven. 

These  men  discern  a height  beyond  all  heights, 

A depth  below  all  depths,  and  never  an  end 
Without  a pang  beyond  it,  and  a hope ; 

Without  a heaven  beyond  it,  and  a hell. 

For  these,  despair  is  like  a bubble  pricked, 

An  old  romance  to  make  young  lovers  weep. 

For  these,  the  law  becomes  a fiery  road, 

A Jacob’s  ladder  through  that  vast  abyss 
Lacking  no  rung  from  realm  to  loftier  realm, 

Nor  wanting  one  degree  from  dust  to  wings. 

These,  at  the  last,  radiant  with  victory, 

Lay  their  strong  hands  upon  the  winged  steeds 
And  fiery  chariots,  and  exult  to  hold, 

Themselves,  the  throbbing  reins,  whereby  they  steer 
The  stormy  splendours. 

He,  being  less,  rebelled, 

Cried  out  for  unreined  steeds,  and  unruled  stars, 

An  unprohibited  ocean  and  a truth 
Untrue;  and  the  equal  thunder  of  the  law 
Hurled  him  to  night  and  chaos,  who  was  born 
To  shine  upon  the  forehead  of  the  day. 

And  yet — the  voice  of  darkness  and  despair 

May  speak  for  heaven  where  heaven  would  not  be  heard, 

May  fight  for  heaven  where  heaven  would  not  prevail, 

And  the  consummate  splendour  of  that  strife, 

Swallowing  up  all  discords,  all  defeat, 

In  one  huge  victory,  harmonising  all, 

Make  Lucifer,  at  last,  at  one  with  God. 

There, — on  that  All  Souls’  Eve,  you  might  have  thought 
A dead  man  spoke,  to  see  how  Drayton  stared, 

And  Drummond  started. 

“You  saw  no  ruby  ring,” 

The  old  sexton  muttered  sullenly.  “If  you  did, 


THE  BURIAL  OF  A QUEEN 


365 


The  worse  for  me,  by  all  accounts.  The  lights 
Burned  low.  You  caught  the  firelight  on  my  fist. 

What  wras  it  like,  this  ring?” 

“A  band  of  gold, 

And  a great  ruby,  heart-shaped,  fit  to  bum 
Between  the  breasts  of  Lais.  Am  I awake 
Or  dreaming?” 

“ ‘ Well, — that  makes  the  second  time! 
There’s  many  have  said  they  saw  it,  out  of  jest, 

To  scare  me.  For  the  astrologer  did  say 

The  third  time  I should  die.  Now,  did  you  see  it? 

Most  likely  someone’s  told  you  that  old  tale! 

You  hadn’t  heard  it,  now?” 

Ford  shook  his  head. 

“What  tale?”  said  Ben. 

“0,  you  could  make  a book 
About  my  life.  I’ve  talked  with  quick  and  dead, 

And  neither  ghost  nor  flesh  can  fright  me  now! 

I wish  it  was  a ring,  so’s  I could  catch  him, 

And  sell  him;  but  I’ve  never  seen  him  yet. 

A white  witch  told  me,  if  I did,  I’d  go 
Clink,  just  like  that,  to  heaven  or  t’other  place, 
Whirled  in  a fiery  chariot  with  ten  steeds 
The  way  Elijah  went.  For  I have  seen 
So  many  mighty  things  that  I must  die 
Mightily. 

Well, — I came,  sirs,  to  my  craft 
The  day  mine  uncle  Robert  dug  the  grave 
For  good  Queen  Katharine,  she  whose  heart  was  broke 
By  old  King  Harry,  a very  great  while  ago. 

Maybe  you’ve  heard  about  my  uncle,  sirs? 

He  was  far-famous  for  his  grave-digging. 

In  depth,  in  speed,  in  neatness,  he’d  no  match! 

They’ve  put  a fine  slab  to  his  memory 
In  Peterborough  Cathedral — Robert  Scarlet , 

Sexton  for  half  a century , it  says, 

In  Peterborough  Cathedral , where  he  built 
The  last  sad  habitation  for  two  queens , 

And  many  hundreds  of  the  common  sort. 

And  now  himself , who  for  so  many  built 
Eternal  habitations , others  have  buried . 


366 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Obiit  anno  cetatis , ninety-eight , 

July  the  second , fifteen  ninety-four . 

We  should  do  well,  sir,  with  a slab  like  that, 
Shouldn’t  we?”  And  the  sexton  leered  at  Lodge. 
“Not  many  boasts  a finer  slab  than  that. 

There’s  many  a king  done  worse.  Ah,  well,  you  see, 
He’d  a fine  record.  Living  to  ninety-eight, 

He  buried  generations  of  the  poor, 

A countless  host,  and  thought  no  more  of  it 
Than  digging  potatoes.  He’d  a lofty  mind 
That  found  no  satisfaction  in  small  deeds. 

But  from  his  burying  of  two  queens  he  drew 
A lively  pleasure.  Could  he  have  buried  a third, 

It  would  indeed  have  crowned  his  old  white  hairs. 

But  he  was  famous,  and  he  thought,  perchance, 

A third  were  mere  vain-glory.  So  he  died. 

I helped  him  with  the  second.” 

The  old  man  leered 

To  see  the  shaft  go  home. 

Ben  filled  the  stoup 

With  ale.  “So  that,”  quoth  he,  “began  the  tale 
About  this  ruby  ring?”  “But  who,”  said  Lodge, 
“Who  was  the  second  queen?” 

“A  famous  queen, 

And  a great  lover ! When  you  hear  her  name, 

Your  hearts  will  leap.  Her  beauty  passed  the  bounds 
Of  modesty,  men  say,  yet — she  died  young! 

We  buried  her  at  midnight.  There  were  few 
That  knew  it;  for  the  high  State  Funeral 
Was  held  upon  the  morrow,  Lammas  morn. 

Anon  you  shall  hear  why.  A strange  thing  that, — 

To  see  the  mourners  weeping  round  a hearse 
That  held  a dummy  coffin.  Stranger  still 
To  see  us  lowering  the  true  coffin  down 
By  torchlight,  with  some  few  of  her  true  friends, 

In  Peterborough  Cathedral,  all  alone.” 

“Old  as  the  world,”  said  Ford.  “It  is  the  way 
Of  princes.  Their  true  tears  and  smiles  are  seen 
At  dead  of  night,  like  ghosts  raised  from  the  grave! 
And  all  the  luxury  of  their  brief,  bright  noon, 

Cloaks  but  a dummy  throne,  a mask  of  life; 


THE  BURIAL  OF  A QUEEN 


367 


And,  at  the  last,  drapes  a false  catafalque, 

Holding  a vacant  urn,  a mask  of  death. 

But  tell,  tell  on!” 

The  sexton  took  a draught 
Of  ale  and  smacked  his  lips. 

“Mine  uncle  lived 

A mile  or  more  from  Peterborough,  then. 

And,  past  his  cottage,  in  the  dead  of  night, 

Her  royal  coach  came  creeping  through  the  lanes, 

With  scutcheons  round  it  and  no  crowd  to  see, 

And  heralds  carrying  torches  in  their  hands, 

And  none  to  admire,  but  him  and  me,  and  one, 

A pedlar-poet,  who  lodged  with  us  that  week 
And  paid  his  lodging  with  a bunch  of  rhymes. 

By  these,  he  said,  my  uncle  Robert’s  fame 
Should  live,  as  in  a picture,  till  the  crack 
Of  doom.  My  uncle  thought  that  he  should  pay 
Four-pence  beside;  but,  when  the  man  declared 
The  thought  unworthy  of  these  august  events, 

My  uncle  was  abashed. 

And,  truth  to  tell, 

The  rhymes  were  mellow,  though  here  and  there  he  swerved 
From  truth  to  make  them  so.  Nor  would  he  change ' 

1 June’  to  ‘July’  for  all  that  we  could  say. 

‘I  never  said  the  month  was  June/  he  cried, 

* And  if  I did,  Shakespeare  hath  jumped  an  age! 

Gods,  will  you  hedge  me  round  with  thirty  nights? 

“June”  rhymes  with  “moon”!’  With  that,  he  flung  them 
down 

And  strode  away  like  Lucifer,  and  was  gone, 

Before  old  Scarlet  could  approach  again 
The  matter  of  that  four-pence. 

Yet  his  rhymes 

Have  caught  the  very  colours  of  that  night ! 

I can  see  through  them, 

Ay,  just  as  through  our  cottage  window-panes, 

Can  see  the  great  black  coach, 

Carrying  the  dead  queen  past  our  garden-gate. 

The  roses  bobbing  and  fluttering  to  and  fro, 

Hide,  and  yet  show  the  more  by  hiding,  half. 

And,  like  smoked  glass  through  which  you  see  the  sun, 


368 


7’ ALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


The  song  shows  truest  when  it  blurs  the  truth. 
This  is  the  way  it  goes.” 

He  rose  to  his  feet, 

Picked  up  his  spade,  and  struck  an  attitude, 
Leaning  upon  it.  “Fve  got  to  feel  my  spade, 
Or  FU  forget  it.  This  is  the  way  I speak  it. 
Always.”  And,  with  a schoolboy’s  rigid  face, 
And  eyes  fixed  on  the  rafters,  he  began, 
Sing-song,  the  pedlar-poet’s  bunch  of  rhymes: — - 


As  I went  by  the  cattle-shed 
The  grey  dew  dimmed  the  grass, 

And,  under  a twisted  apple-tree, 

Old  Robin  Scarlet  stood  by  me. 

“Keep  watch!  Keep  watch  to-night,”  he  said, 
“There’s  things  ’ull  come  to  pass. 


“Keep  watch  until  the  moon  has  cleared 
The  thatch  of  yonder  rick; 

Then  I’ll  come  out  of  my  cottage-door 
To  wait  for  the  coach  of  a queen  once  more; 
And — you’ll  say  nothing  of  what  j^ou’ve  heard, 
But  rise  and  follow  me  quick.” 


“And  what  ’ull  I see  if  I keep  your  trust, 
And  wait  and  watch  so  late?  ” 

“Pride,”  he  said,  “and  Pomp,”  he  said, 
“Beauty  to  haunt  you  till  }rou’re  dead, 
And  Glorious  Dust  that  goes  to  dust, 
Passing  the  white  farm-gate. 


“You  are  young  and  all  for  adventure,  lad, 
And  the  great  tales  to  be  told: 

This  night,  before  the  clock  strike  one, 
Your  lordliest  hour  will  all  be  done; 

But  you’ll  remember  it  and  be  glad, 

In  the  days  when  you  are  old!” 


THE  BURIAL  OF  A QUEEN 


369 


All  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 

My  face  was  at  the  pane; 

When,  creeping  out  of  his  cottage-door, 

To  wait  for  the  coach  of  a queen  once  more. 
Old  Scarlet,  in  the  moon-light, 

Beckoned  to  me  again. 

He  stood  beneath  a lilac-spray, 

Like  Father  Time  for  dole, 

In  Reading  Tawny  cloak  and  hood, 

With  mattock  and  with  spade  he  stood, 

And,  far  away  to  southward, 

A bell  began  to  toll. 

He  stood  beneath  a lilac-spray, 

And  never  a word  he  said; 

But,  as  I stole  out  of  the  house, 

He  pointed  over  the  orchard  boughs, 

Where,  not  with  dawn  or  sunset, 

The  Northern  sky  grew  red. 

I followed  him,  and  half  in  fear, 

To  the  old  farm-gate  again; 

And,  round  the  curve  of  the  long  white  road, 
I saw  that  the  dew-dashed  hedges  glowed 
Red  with  the  grandeur  drawing  near, 

And  the  torches  of  her  train. 

They  carried  her  down  with  singing, 

With  singing  sweet  and  low, 

Slowly  round  the  curve  they  came, 

Twenty  torches  dropping  flame, 

The  heralds  that  were  bringing  her 
The  way  we  all  must  go. 

’Twas  master  William  Dethick, 

The  Garter  King  of  Arms, 

Before  her  royal  coach  did  ride, 

With  none  to  see  his  Coat  of  Pride, 

For  peace  was  on  the  countryside, 

And  sleep  upon  the  farms; 


24 


370 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Peace  upon  the  red  farm, 

Peace  upon  the  grey, 

Peace  on  the  heavy  orchard  trees, 

And  little  white-walled  cottages, 

Peace  upon  the  wayside, 

And  sleep  upon  the  way. 

So  master  William  Dethick, 

With  forty  horse  and  men, 

Like  any  common  man  and  mean 
Rode  on  before  the  Queen,  the  Queen, 

And — only  a wandering  pedlar 
Could  tell  the  tale  again. 

How,  like  a cloud  of  darkness, 

Between  the  torches  moved 
Four  black  steeds  and  a velvet  pall 
Crowned  with  the  Crown  Imperiall 
And — on  her  shield — the  lilies, 

The  lilies  that  she  loved. 

Ah,  stained  and  ever  stainless 
Ah,  white  as  her  own  hand, 

White  as  the  wonder  of  that  brow, 
Crowned  with  colder  lilies  now, 

White  on  the  velvet  darkness, 

The  lilies  of  her  land ! 

The  witch  from  over  the  water, 

The  fay  from  over  the  foam, 

The  bride  that  rode  thro’  Edinbro’  town 
With  satin  shoes  and  a silken  gown, 

A queen,  and  a great  king’s  daughter, — 
Thus  they  carried  her  home, 

With  torches  and  with  scutcheons, 
Unhonoured  and  unseen, 

With  the  lilies  of  France  in  the  wind  a-stir, 
And  the  Lion  of  Scotland  over  her, 

Darkly,  in  the  dead  of  night, 

They  carried  the  Queen,  the  Queen* 


THE  BURIAL  OF  A QUEEN 


371 


The  sexton  paused  and  took  a draught  of  ale. 

‘“'Twas  there,”  he  said,  “I  joined  'em  at  the  gate, 

My  uncle  and  the  pedlar.  What  they  sang, 

The  little  shadowy  throng  of  men  that  walked 
Behind  the  scutcheoned  coach  with  bare  bent  heads 
I know  not;  but  'twas  very  soft  and  low. 

They  walked  behind  the  rest,  like  shadows  flung 
Behind  the  torch-light,  from  that  strange  dark  hearse. 
And,  some  said,  afterwards,  they  were  the  ghosts 
Of  lovers  that  this  queen  had  brought  to  death. 

A foolish  thought  it  seemed  to  me,  and  yet 
Like  the  night-wind  they  sang.  And  there  was  one 
An  olive-coloured  man, — the  pedlar  said 
Was  like  a certain  foreigner  that  she  loved, 

One  Chastelard,  a wild  French  poet  of  hers. 

Also  the  pedlar  thought  they  sang  ‘farewell' 

In  words  like  this,  and  that  the  words  in  French 
Were  written  by  the  hapless  Queen  herself, 

When  as  a girl  she  left  the  vines  of  France 
For  Scotland  and  the  halls  of  Holyrood: — 


i 

Though  thy  hands  have  plied  their  trade 
Eighty  years  without  a rest, 

Robin  Scarlet,  never  thy  spade 
Built  a house  for  such  a guest! 

Carry  her  where,  in  earliest  June, 

All  the  whitest  hawthorns  blow; 

Carry  her  under  the  midnight  moon, 

Singing  very  soft  and  low. 

Slow  between  the  low  green  larches,  carry  the  lovely  lady 
sleeping, 

Past  the  low  white  moon-lit  farms,  along  the  lilac-shadowed 
way! 

Carry  her  through  the  summer  darkness,  weeping,  weeping, 
weeping,  weeping! 

Answering  only,  to  any  that  ask  you,  whence  ye  carry  her, — 

Fotheringhay ! 


372 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


II 

She  was  gayer  than  a child! 

— Let  your  torches  droop  for  sorrow . — 

Laughter  in  her  eyes  ran  wild! 

— Carry  her  down  to  Peterboro ’. — 

Words  were  kisses  in  her  mouth! 

— Let  no  word  of  blame  be  spoken. — 

She  was  Queen  of  all  the  South! 

— In  the  North , her  heart  was  broken. — 

They  should  have  left  her  in  her  vineyards,  left  her  heart  to  her 
land's  own  keeping, 

Left  her  white  breast  room  to  breathe,  and  left  her  light  foot 
free  to  dance. 

Out  of  the  cold  grey  Northern  mists,  we  carry  her  weeping, 
weeping,  weeping, — 

0,  ma  patrie , 

La  plus  cherie , 

Adieu , plaisant  pays  de  France ! 


hi 

Many  a red  heart  died  to  beat 
— Music  swelled  in  Holy  rood! — 

Once,  beneath  her  fair  white  feet. 

— Now  the  floors  may  rot  with  blood — 

She  was  young  and  her  deep  hair — 

- — Wind  and  rain  were  all  her  fate! — 

Trapped  young  Love  as  in  a snare. 

— And  the  wind’s  a sword  in  the  Canongate! 
Edinboro ’! 

Edinboro 7 

Music  built  the  towers  of  Troyf  but  thy  grey  walls  are  built 
of  sorrow! 

Wind-swept  hills,  and  sorrowful  glens,  of  thrifty  sowing  aiid 
iron  reaping, 

What  if  her  foot  were  fair  as  a sunbeam,  how  should  it  touch 
or  melt  your  snows? 

What  if  her  hair  were  a silken  mesh? 

Hands  of  steel  can  deal  hard  blows, 

Iron  breast-plates  bruise  fair  flesh! 


THE*  BURIAL  OF  A QUEEN 


373 


Carry  her  southward,  palled  in  purple, 

Weeping,  weeping,  weeping,  weeping, 

What  had  their  rocks  to  do  with  roses?  Body  and  soul  she  was 
all  one  rose. 

Thus,  through  the  summer  night,  slowly  they  went, 

We  three  behind, — the  pedlar-poet  and  I, 

And  Robin  Scarlet,  The  moving  flare  that  ringed 
The  escutcheoned  hearse,  lit  every  leaf  distinct 
Along  the  hedges  and  woke  the  sleeping  birds, 

But  drew  no  watchers  from  the  drowsier  farms. 

Thus,  through  a world  of  innocence  and  sleep, 

We  brought  her  to  the  doors  of  her  last  home, 

In  Peterborough  Cathedral.  Round  her  tomb 
They  stood,  in  the  huge  gloom  of  those  old  aisles, 

The  heralds  with  their  torches,  but  their  light 
Struggled  in  vain  with  that  tremendous  dark. 

Their  ring  of  smoky  red  could  only  show 
A few  sad  faces  round  the  purple  pall, 

The  wings  of  a stone  angel  overhead, 

The  base  of  three  great  pillars,  and,  fitful^, 

Faint  as  the  phosphorus  glowing  in  some  old  vault, 

One  little  slab  of  marble,  far  away. 

Yet,  or  the  darkness,  or  the  pedlar’s  words 
Had  made  me  fanciful,  I thought  I saw 
Bowed  shadows  praying  in  those  unplumbed  aisles, 

Nay,  dimly  heard  them  weeping,  in  a grief 
That  still  was  built  of  silence,  like  the  drip 
Of  water  from  a frozen  fountain-head. 

We  laid  her  in  her  grave.  We  closed  the  tomb. 

With  echoing  footsteps  all  the  funeral  went; 

And  I went  last  to  close  and  lock  the  doors; 

Last,  and  half  frightened  of  the  enormous  gloom 
That  rolled  along  behind  me  as  one  by  one 
The  torches  vanished.  O,  I was  glad  to  see 
The  moonlight  on  the  kind  turf-mounds  again. 

But,  as  I turned  the  key,  a quivering  hand 
Was  laid  upon  my  arm.  I turned  and  saw 
That  foreigner  with  the  olive-coloured  face. 

From  head  to  foot  he  shivered,  as  with  cold. 

He  drew  me  into  the  shadows  of  the  porch. 


374 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


‘Come  back  with  me/  he  whispered,  and  slid  his  hand 
— Like  ice  it  was! — along  my  wrist,  and  slipped 
A ring  upon  my  finger,  muttering  quick, 

As  in  a burning  fever,  ‘All  the  wealth 
Of  Eldorado  for  one  hour!  Come  back! 

I must  go  back  and  see  her  face  again! 

I was  not  there,  not  there,  the  day  she — died. 

You’ll  help  me  with  the  coffin.  Not  a soul 
Will  know.  Come  back!  One  moment,  only  one!’ 

I thought  the  man  was  mad,  and  plucked  my  hand 
Away  from  him.  He  caught  me  by  the  sleeve, 

And  sank  upoh  his  knees,  lifting  his  face 
Most  piteously  to  mine.  ‘One  moment!  See! 

I loved  her!’ 

I saw  the  moonlight  glisten  on  his  tears, 

Great,  long,  slow  tears  they  wxre;  and  then — my  God — 
As  his  face  lifted  and  his  head  sank  back 
Beseeching  me — I saw  a crimson  thread 
Circling  his  throat,  as  though  the  headsman’s  axe 
Had  cloven  it  with  one  blow,  so  shrewd,  so  keen, 

The  head  had  slipped  not  from  the  trunk. 

I gasped; 

Amd,  as  he  pleaded,  stretching  his  head  back, 

The  wound,  0 like  a second  awful  mouth, 

The  wound  began  to  gape. 

I tore  my  cloak 

Out  of  his  clutch.  My  keys  fell  with  a clash. 

I left  them  where  they  lay,  and  with  a shout 
I dashed  into  the  broad  white  empty  road. 

There  was  no  soul  in  sight.  Sweating  with  fear 
I hastened  home,  not  daring  to  look  back; 

But  as  I turned  the  corner,  I heard  the  clang 
Of  those  great  doors,  and  knew  he  had  entered  in. 

Not  till  I saw  before  me  in  the  lane 
The  pedlar  and  my  uncle  did  I halt 
And  look  at  that  which  clasped  my  finger  still 
As  with  a band  of  ice. 

My  hand  was  bare! 

I stared  at  it  and  rubbed  it.  Then  I thought 
I had  been  dreaming.  There  had  been  no  ring! 


THE  BURIAL  OF  A QUEEN 


375 


The  poor  man  I had  left  there  in  the  porch, 
Being  a Frenchman,  talked  a little  wild; 

But  only  wished  to  look  upon  her  grave. 

And  I — I was  the  madman!  So  I said 
Nothing.  But  all  the  same,  for  all  my  thoughts, 
Fd  not  go  back  that  night  to  find  the  keys, 

No,  not  for  all  the  rubies  in  the  crown 
Of  Prester  John. 


The  high  State  Funeral 

Was  held  on  Lammas  Day.  A wondrous  sight 
For  Peterborough!  For  myself,  I found 
Small  satisfaction  in  a catafalque 
That  carried  a dummy  coffin.  None  the  less, 

The  pedlar  thought  that  as  a Solemn  Masque, 

Or  Piece  of  Purple  Pomp,  the  thing  was  good, 

And  worthy  of  a picture  in  his  rhymes; 

The  more  because  he  said  it  shadowed  forth 
The  ironic  face  of  Death. 

The  Masque,  indeed 

Began  before  we  buried  her.  For  a host 
Of  Mourners — Lords  and  Ladies — on  Lammas  eve 
Panting  with  eagerness  of  pride  and  place, 

Arrived  in  readiness  for  the  morrow’s  pomp, 

And  at  the  Bishop’s  Palace  they  found  prepared 
A mighty  supper  for  them,  where  they  sat 
All  at  one  table.  In  a Chamber  hung 
WitlTscutcheons  and  black  cloth,  they  drank  red  wine 
And  feasted,  while  the  torches  and  the  Queen 
Crept  through  the  darkness  of  Northampton  lanes. 


At  seven  o’clock  on  Lammas  Morn  they  woke, 
After  the  Queen  was  buried;  and  at  eight 
The  Masque  set  forth,  thus  pictured  in  the  rhymes 
With  tolling  bells,  which  on  the  pedlar’s  lips 
Had  more  than  paid  his  lodging : Thus  he  spake  it, 
Slowly,  sounding  the  rhymes  like  solemn  bells, 

And  tolling,  in  between,  with  lingering  tongue: — 


6 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Toll ! — From  the  Palace  the  Releevants  creep, — 

A hundred  poor  old  women,  nigh  their  end, 
Wearing  their  black  cloth  gowns,  and  on  each  head 
An  ell  of  snow-white  holland  which,  some  said, 
Afterwards  they  might  keep, 

— Ah , Toll! — with  nine  new  shillings  each  to  spend, 
For  all  the  trouble  that  they  had,  and  all 
The  sorrow  of  walking  to  this  funeral. 


Toll! — And  the  Mourning  Cloaks  in  purple  streamed 
Following,  a long  procession,  two  by  two, 

Her  Household  first.  With  these,  Monsieur  du  Preau 
Her  French  Confessor,  unafraid  to  show 

The  golden  Cross  that  gleamed 
About  his  neck,  warned  what  the  crowd  might  do 
Said  I will  wear  it,  though  I die  for  it! 

So  subtle  in  malice  was  that  Jesuit. 

« 

Toll! — Sir  George  Savile  in  his  Mourner's  Gown 
Carried  the  solemn  Cross  upon  a Field 
Azure,  and  under  it  by  a streamer  borne 
Upon  a field  of  Gules,  an  Unicorn 

Argent  and,  lower  down, 

A scrolled  device  upon  a blazoned  shield, 

Which  seemed  to  say — I am  silent  till  the  end? — 
Toll!  Toll! — In  my  defence,  God  me  defend! 

Toll! — and  a hundred  poor  old  men  went  by, 

Followed  by  two  great  Bishops. — Toll,  ah  toll! — 
Then,  with  White  Staves  and  Gowns,  four  noble  lords; 
Then  sixteen  Scots  and  Frenchmen  with  drawn  swords 
Then,  with  a Bannerol, 

Sir  Andrew  Noel,  lifting  to  the  sky 

The  Great  Red  Lion.  Then  the  Crown  and  Crest 
Borne  by  a Herald  on  his  glittering  breast. 

And  now — ah  now,  indeed,  the  deep  bell  tolls — 

That  empty  Coffin,  with  its  velvet  pall, 

Borne  by  six  Gentlemen,  under  a canopy 
Of  purple,  lifted  by  four  knights,  goes  by. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  A QUEEN 


37 


The  Crown  Imperial 

Burns  on  the  Coffin-head.  Four  Bannerols 
On  either  side,  uplifted  by  four  squires, 

Roll  on  the  wind  their  rich  heraldic  fires. 

Toll!  The  Chief  Mourner — the  fair  Russell! — toll! — 
Countess  of  Bedford — toll! — they  bring  her  now, 
Weeping  under  a purple  Cloth  of  State, 

Till,  halting  there  before  the  Minister  Gate, 

Having  in  her  control 
The  fair  White  Staves  of  office,  with  a bow 
She  gives  them  to  her  two  great  Earls  again, 

Then  sweeps  them  onward  in  her  mournful  train. 

Toll!  At  the  high  Cathedral  door  the  Quires 
Meet  them  and  lead  them,  singing  all  the  while 
A mighty  Miserere  for  her  soul! 

Then,  as  the  rolling  organ — toll , ah  toll ! — 

Floods  every  glimmering  aisle 
With  ocean-thunders,  all  those  knights  and  squires 
Bring  the  false  Coffin  to  the  central  nave 
And  set  it  in  the  Catafalque  o’er  her  grave. 

The  Catafalque  was  made  in  Field-bed  wise 

Valanced  with  midnight  purple,  fringed  with  gold: 
All  the  Chief  Mourners  on  dark  thrones  were  set 
Within  it,  as  jewels  in  some  huge  carcanet: 

Above  was  this  device 
In  my  defence,  God  me  defend,  inscrolled 
Round  the  rich  Arms  of  Scotland,  as  to  say 
“Man  judged  me.  I abide  the  Judgment  Day.” 

The  sexton  paused  anew.  All  looked  at  him, 

And  at  his  wrinkled,  grim,  earth-coloured  hand, 

As  if,  in  that  dim  light,  beclouded  now 
With  blue  tobacco -smoke,  they  thought  to  see 
The  smouldering  ruby  again. 

“Ye  know,”  he  said, 
“How  master  William  Wickham  preached  that  day?” 
Ford  nodded.  “I  have  heard  of  it.  He  showed 
Subtly,  0 very  subtly,  after  his  kind, 


378 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


That  the  white  Body  of  Beauty  such  as  hers 
Was  in  itself  Papistical,  a feast, 

A fast,  an  incense,  a burnt-offering, 

And  an  Abomination  in  the  sight 

Of  all  true  Protestants.  Why,  her  very  name 

Was  Mary!” 

“Ay,  that’s  true,  that’s  very  true!” 

The  sexton  mused.  “Now  that’s  a strange  deep  thought 
The  Bishop  missed  a text  in  missing  that. 

Her  name,  indeed,  was  Mary!” 

“Did  you  find 

Your  keys  again?”  “Ay,  sir,  I found  them!”  “Where? 
“Strange  you  should  ask  me  that!  After  the  throng 
Departed,  and  the  Nobles  were  at  feast, 

All  in  the  Bishop’s  Palace — a great  feast 
And  worthy  of  their  sorrow — I came  back 
Carrying  my  uncle’s  second  bunch  of  keys 
To  lock  the  doors  and  search,  too,  for  mine  own. 

’Twas  growing  dusk  already,  and  as  I thrust 
The  key  into  the  lock,  the  great  grey  porch 
Grew  cold  upon  me,  like  a tomb. 

I pushed 

Hard  at  the  key — then  stopped — with  ail  my  flesh 
Freezing,  and  half  in  mind  to  fly;  for,  sirs, 

The  door  was  locked  already,  and — from  within! 

I drew  the  key  forth  quietly  and  stepped  back 
Into  the  Churchyard,  where  the  graves  were  warm 
With  sunset  still,  and  the  blunt  carven  stones 
Lengthened  their  homely  shadows,  out  and  out, 

To  Everlasting.  Then  I plucked  up  heart, 

Seeing  the  footprints  of  that  mighty  Masque 
Along  the  pebbled  path.  A queer  thought  came 
Into  my  head  that  all  the  world  without 
Was  but  a Masque,  and  I was  creeping  back, 

Back  from  the  Mourner’s  Feast  to  Truth  again. 

Yet — I grew  bold,  and  tried  the  Southern  door. 

’Twas  locked,  but  held  no  key  on  the  inner  side 
To  foil  my  own,  and  softly,  softly,  click, 

I turned  it,  and  with  heart,  sirs,  in  my  mouth, 

Pushed  back  the  studded  door  and  entered  in  . . . 
Stepped  straight  out  of  the  world,  I might  have  said, 


THE  BURIAL  OF  A QUEEN 


379 


Out  of  the  dusk  into  a night  so  deep, 

So  dark,  I trembled  like  a child.  . . . 

And  then 

I was  aware,  sirs,  of  a great  sweet  wave 
Of  incense.  All  the  gloom  was  heavy  with  *t, 

As  if  her  Papist  Household  had  returned 
To  pray  for  her  poor  soul;  and,  my  fear  went. 

But  either  that  strange  incense  weighed  me  down- 
Or  else  from  being  sorely  over-tasked, 

A languor  came  upon  me,  and  sitting  there 
To  breathe  a moment,  in  a velvet  stall, 

I closed  mine  eyes. 

A moment,  and  no  more, 

For  then  I heard  a rustling  in  the  nave, 

And  opened  them;  and,  very  far  away, 

As  if  across  the  world,  in  Rome  herself, 

I saw  twelve  tapers  in  the  solemn  East, 

And  saw,  or  thought  I saw,  cowled  figures  kneel 
Before  them,  in  an  incense-cloud. 

And  then, 

Maybe  the  sunset  deepened  in  the  world 
Of  masques  without — clear  proof  that  I had  closed 
Mine  eyes  but  for  a moment,  sirs,  I saw 
As  if  across  a world-without-end  tomb, 

A tiny  jewelled  glow  of  crimson  panes 
Darkening  and  brightening  with  the  West. 

And  then, 

Then  I saw  something  more — Queen  Mary's  vault, 

And — it  was  open!  . . . 

Then,  I heard  a voice, 

A strange  deep  broken  voice,  whispering  love 

In  soft  French  words,  that  clasped  and  clung  like  hands; 

And  then — two  shadows  passed  against  the  West, 

Two  blurs  of  black  against  that  crimson  stain, 

Slowly,  0 very  slowly,  with  bowed  heads, 

Leaning  together,  and  vanished  into  the  dark 
Beyond  the  Catafalque. 

Then — I heard  him  pray, — 
And  knew  him  for  the  man  that  prayed  to  me, — 

Pray  as  a man  prays  for  his  love's  last  breath! 

And  then,  O sirs,  it  caught  me  by  the  throat, 


380 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


And  I,  too,  dropped  upon  my  knees  and  prayed; 

For,  as  in  answer  to  his  prayer,  there  came 
A moan  of  music,  a mighty  shuddering  sound 
From  the  great  organ,  a sound  that  rose  and  fell 
Like  seas  in  anger,  very  far  away; 

And  then  a peal  of  thunder,  and  then  it  seemed, 

As  if  the  graves  were  giving  up  their  dead, 

A great  cowled  host  of  shadows  rose  and  sang: — 

Dies  irce , dies  illd 
Solvet  sceclum  in  faviliay 
Teste  David  cum  Sibylla. 

I heard  her  sad,  sad,  little,  broken  voice, 

Out  in  the  darkness.  ‘Ay,  and  David,  too, 

His  blood  is  on  the  floors  of  Holyrood, 

To  speak  for  me.’  Then  that  great  ocean-sound 
Swelled  to  a thunder  again,  and  heaven  and  earth 
Shrivelled  away;  and  in  that  huge  slow  hymn 
Chariots  were  driven  forth  in  flaming  rows, 

.And  terrible  trumpets  blown  from  deep  to  deep. 

And  then,  ah  then,  the  heart  of  heaven  was  hushed, 
And — in  the  hush — it  seemed  an  angel  wept, 

Another  Mary  wept,  and  gathering  up 

All  our  poor  wounded,  weary,  way-worn  world, 

Even  as  a Mother  gathers  up  her  babe, 

Soothed  it  against  her  breast,  and  rained  her  tears 
On  the  pierced  feet  of  God,  and  melted  Him 
To  pity,  and  over  His  feet  poured  her  deep  hair. 

The  music  died  away.  The  shadows  knelt. 

And  then — I heard  a rustling  nigh  the  tomb, 

And  heard — and  heard — or  dreamed  I heard — farewells? 
Farewells  for  everlasting,  deep  farewells, 

Bitter  as  blood,  darker  than  any  death. 

And,  at  the  last,  as  in  a kiss,  one  breath, 

One  agony  of  sweetness,  like  a sword 

For  sharpness,  drawn  along  a soft  white  throat; 

And,  for  its  terrible  sweetness,  like  a sigh 
Across  great  waters,  very  far  away, — 

Sweetheart! 


THE  BURIAL  OF  A QUEEN 


381 


And  then,  like  doors,  like  world-without-end  doors 
That  shut  for  Everlasting,  came  a clang, 

And  ringing,  echoing,  through  the  echo  of  it, 

One  terrible  cry  that  plucked  my  heart-strings  out, 
Mary ! And  on  the  closed  and  silent  tomb. 

Where  there  were  two,  one  shuddering  shadow  lay, 

And  then — I,  too, — reeled,  swooned  and  knew  no  more. 

Sirs,  when  I woke,  there  was  a broad  bright  shaft 
Of  moonlight,  slanting  through  an  Eastern  pane 
Full  on  her  tomb  and  that  black  Catafalque. 

And  on  the  tomb  there  lay — my  bunch  of  keys! 

I struggled  to  my  feet, 

Ashamed  of  my  wild  fancies,  like  a man 
Awakening  from  a drunken  dream.  And  yet, 

When  I picked  up  the  keys,  although  that  storm 
Of  terror  had  all  blown  by  and  left  me  calm, 

I lifted  up  mine  eyes  to  see  the  scroll 
Round  the  rich  crest  of  that  dark  canopy, 

In  my  defence,  God  me  defend.  The  moon 
Struck  full  upon  it;  and,  as  I turned  and  went, 

God  help  me,  sirs,  though  I were  loyal  enough 
To  good  Queen  Bess,  I could  not  help  but  say, 

Amen! 

And  yet,  methought  it  was  not  I that  spake, 

But  some  deep  soul  that  used  me  for  a mask, 

A soul  that  rose  up  in  this  hollow  shell 
Like  dark  sea-tides  flooding  an  empty  cave. 

I could  not  help  but  say  with  my  poor  lips, 

Amen ! Amen! 

Sirs,  ’tis  a terrible  thing 

To  move  in  great  events.  Since  that  strange  night 
I have  not  been  as  other  men.  The  tides 
Would  rise  in  this  dark  cave” — he  tapped  his  skull — 
“Deep  tides,  I know  not  whence;  and  when  they  rose 
My  friends  looked  strangely  upon  me  and  stood  aloof. 
And  once,  my  uncle  said  to  me — indeed, 

It  troubled  me  strangely, — Timothy/  he  said, 

Thou  art  translated!  I could  well  believe 
Thou  art  two  men,  whereof  the  one’s  a fool, 

The  other  a prophet.  Or  else,  beneath  thy  skin 


382 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


There  lurks  a changeling!  What  hath  come  to  thee?? 

And  then,  sirs,  then — well  I remember  it! 

’Twas  on  a summer  eve,  and  we  walked  home 
Between  high  ghostly  hedges  white  with  may — 

And  uncle  Robin,  in  his  holy-day  suit 
Of  Reading  Tawny,  felt  his  old  heart  swell 
With  pride  in  his  great  memories.  He  began 
Chanting  the  pedlar’s  tune,  keeping  the  time 
Thus,  jingle,  jingle,  slowly,  with  his  keys: — 

i 

Douglas,  in  the  moonless  night 
— Muffled  oars  on  blue  Loch  Leven! — 

Took  her  hand,  a flake  of  white 
— Beauty  slides  the  bolts  of  heaven. — 

Little  white  hand,  like  a flake  of  snow, 

When  they  saw  it,  his  Highland  crew 
Swung  together  and  murmured  low, 

“ Douglas,  wilt  thou  die  then,  too?” 

And  the  pine  trees  whispered,  weeping, 
il  Douglas,  Douglas , tender  and  true! 

Little  white  hand  like  a tender  moonbeam,  soon  shall  you 
set  the  broadswords  leaping. 

It  is  the  Queen,  the  Queen!”  they  whispered,  watching 
her  soar  to  the  saddle  anew. 

“There  will  be  trumpets  blown  in  the  mountains,  a mist 
of  blood  on  the  heather,  and  weeping, 

Weeping,  weeping,  and  thou , too,  dead  for  her,  Douglas, 
Douglas,  tender  and  true.” 

ii 

Carry  the  queenly  lass  along! 

— Cold  she  lies , cold  and  dead , — 

She  whose  laughter  was  a song, 

— Lapped  around  with  sheets  of  lead! — 

She  whose  blood  was  wine  of  the  South, 

— Light  her  down  to  a couch  of  clay! — 

And  a royal  rose  her  mouth, 

And  her  body  made  of  may! 


THE  BURIAL  OF  A QUEEN 


383 


« — Lift  your  torches,  weeping,  weeping, 

Light  her  down  to  a couch  of  clay. 

They  should  have  left  her  in  her  vineyards,  left  her  heart 
to  her  land’s  own  keeping, 

Left  her  white  breast  room  to  breathe,  and  left  her  light 
foot  free  to  dance! 


Hush!  Between  the  solemn  pinewoods, carry  the  lovely  lady 
sleeping, 

Out  of  the  cold  grey  Northern  mists,  with  banner  and 
scutcheon,  plume,  and  lance, 

Carry  her  southward,  palled  in  purple,  weeping,  weeping, 
weeping,  weeping, — 

0,  ma  patrie , 

La  plus  cherie , 

Adieu , plaisant  pays  de  France ! 

Well,  sirs,  that  dark  tide  rose  within  my  brain! 

I snatched  his  keys  and  flung  them  over  the  hedge, 
Then  flung  myself  down  on  a bank  of  ferns 
And  wept  and  wept  and  wept. 

It  puzzled  him. 

Perchance  he  feared  my  mind  was  going  and  yet, 

O,  sirs,  if  you  consider  it  rightly  now, 

With  all  those  ages  knocking  at  his  doors, 

With  all  that  custom  clamouring  for  his  care, 

Is  it  so  strange  a grave-digger  should  weep? 

Well — he  was  kind  enough  and  heaped  my  plate 
That  night  at  supper. 

But  I could  never  dig  my  graves  at  ease 
In  Peterborough  Churchyard.  So  I came 
To  London — to  St.  Mary  Magdalen’s. 

And  thus,  I chanced  to  drink  my  ale  one  night 
Here  in  the  Mermaid  Inn.  ’Twas  All  Souls’  Eve, 

And,  on  that  bench,  where  master  Ford  now  sits 
Was  master  Shakespeare — 

Well,  the  lights  burned  low, 

And  just  like  master  Ford  to-night  he  leaned 
Suddenly  forward.  1 Timothy,’  he  said, 

‘ That’s  a most  marvellous  ruby!’ 


384 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


My  blood  froze! 

I stretched  my  hand  out  bare  as  it  was  born; 

And  he  said  nothing,  only  looked  at  me. 

Then,  seeing  my  pipe  was  empty,  he  bade  me  fill 
And  lit  it  for  me. 

Peach,  the  astrologer, 

Was  living  then;  and  that  same  night  I went 
And  told  him  all  my  trouble  about  this  ring. 

He  took  my  hand  in  his,  and  held  it — thus — 

Then  looked  into  my  face  and  said  this  rhyme: — 

The  ruby  ring , that  only  three 
While  Time  and  Tide  go  by,  shall  see, 

Weds  your  hand  to  history . 

Honour  and  pride  the  first  shall  lend; 

The  second  shall  give  you  gold  to  spend; 

The  third — shall  warn  you  of  your  end . 

Peach  was  a rogue,  some  say,  and  yet  he  spake 
Most  truly  about  the  first,”  the  sexton  mused, 

“For  master  Shakespeare,  though  they  say  in  youth 
Outside  the  theatres,  he  would  hold  your  horse 
For  pence,  prospered  at  last,  bought  a fine  house 
In  Stratford,  lived  there  like  a squire,  they  say. 

And  here,  here  he  would  sit,  for  all  the  world 
As  he  were  but  a poet!  God  bless  us  all, 

And  then — to  think! — he  rose  to  be  a squire! 

A deep  one,  masters!  Well,  he  lit  my  pipe!” 

“WLy  did  they  bury  such  a queen  by  night?” 

Said  Ford.  “ Kings  might  have  wept  for  her.  Did  Death 

Play  epicure  and  glutton  that  so  few 

Were  bidden  to  such  a feast.  Once  on  a time, 

I could  have  wept,  myself,  to  hear  a tale 
Of  beauty  buried  in  the  dark.  And  hers 
Was  loveliness,  far,  far  beyond  the  common! 

Such  beauty  should  be  marble  to  the  touch 

Of  time,  and  clad  in  purple  to  amaze 

The  moth.  But  she  was  kind  and  soft  and  fair, 

A woman,  and  so  she  died.  But,  why  the  dark?” 


THE  BURIAL  OF  A QUEEN 


385 


“Sir,  they  gave  out  the  coffin  was  too  heavy 
For  gentlemen  to  bear!” — “For  kings  to  bear?” 

Ford  flashed  at  him.  The  sexton  shook  his  head, — 
“Nay!  Gentlemen  to  bear!  But — the  true  cause — 
Ah,  sir,  ’tis  unbelievable,  even  to  me, 

A sexton,  for  a queen  so  fair  of  face! 

And  all  her  beds,  even  as  the  pedlar  said, 

Breathing  Arabia,  sirs,  her  walls  all  hung 
With  woven  purple  wonders  and  great  tales 
Of  amorous  gods,  and  mighty  mirrors,  too, 

Imaging  her  own  softness,  night  and  dawn, 

When  through  her  sumptuous  hair  she  drew  the  combs; 
And  like  one  great  white  rose-leaf  half  her  breast 
Shone  through  it,  firm  as  ivory.” 

“Ay,”  said  Lodge, 

Murmuring  his  own  rich  music  under  breath, 

“ About  her  neck  did  all  the  graces  throng , 

And  lay  such  baits  as  did  entangle  death .” 

“Well,  sir,  the  weather  being  hot,  they  feared 
She  would  not  hold  the  burying!”  . . . 

“In  some  sort,” 

Ford  answered  slowly,  “if  your  tale  be  true, 

She  did  not  hold  it.  Many  a knightly  crest 
Will  bend  yet  o’er  the  ghost  of  that  small  hand.” 

There  was  a hush,  broken  by  Ben  at  last, 

Who  turned  to  Ford — “How  now,  my  golden  lad? 

The  astrologer’s  dead  hand  is  on  thy  purse!” 

Ford  laughed,  grimly,  and  flung  an  angel  down. 

“Well,  cause  or  consequence,  rhyme  or  no  rhyme, 
There  is  thy  gold.  I will  not  break  the  spell, 

Or  thou  mayst  live  to  bury  us  one  and  all!” 

“And,  if  I live  so  long,”  the  old  man  replied, 
Lighting  his  lanthorn,  “you  may  trust  me,  sirs, 

Mine  Inn  is  quiet,  and  I can  find  you  beds 
Where  Queens  might  sleep  all  night  and  never  move. 
Good-night,  sirs,  and  God  bless  you,  one  and  all.” 

He  shouldered  pick  and  spade.  I opened  the  door. 
The  snow  blew  in,  and,  as  he  shuffled  out, 

There,  in  the  strait  dark  passage,  I could  swear 

25 


386 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


I saw  a spark  of  red  upon  his  hand, 
Like  a great  smouldering  ruby. 


I gasped.  He  stopped. 


He  peered  at  me. 

“ Twice  in  a night,”  he  said. 

“ Nothing,”  I answered,  “only  the  lanthorn-light.” 
He  shook  his  head.  “Til  tell  you  something  more! 
There’s  nothing,  nothing  now  in  life  or  death 
That  frightens  me.  Ah,  things  used  to  frighten  me. 
But  never  now.  I thought  I had  ten  years; 

But  if  the  warning  comes  and  says  ‘Thou  fool, 

This  night V Why,  then,  I’m  ready.” 


I watched  him 

With  glimmering  lan thorn  up  the  narrow  street, 

Like  one  that  wralked  upon  the  clouds,  through  snow 
That  seemed  to  mix  the  City  with  the  skies. 


On  Christmas  Eve  we  heard  that  he  was  dead. 


VIII 

FLOS  MERCATORUM 

Flos  Mercatorum  ! On  that  night  of  nights 
We  drew  from  out  our  Mermaid  cellarage 
All  the  old  glory  of  London  in  one  cask 
Of  magic  vintage.  Never  a city  on  earth — 

Rome,  Paris,  Florence,  Bagdad — held  for  Ben 
The  colours  of  old  London;  and,  that  night, 

We  staved  them  like  a wine,  and  drank,  drank  deep! 


’Twas  Master  Heywood,  whom  the  Mermaid  Inn 
Had  dubbed  our  London  laureate,  hauled  the  cask 
Out  of  its  ancient  harbourage.  “Ben,”  he  cried, 
Bustling  into  the  room  with  Dekker  and  Brome, 
“The  prentices  are  up!”  Ben  raised  his  head 
Out  of  the  chimney-corner  where  he  drowsed, 

And  listened,  reaching  slowly  for  his  pipe. 


FLOS  MERCATORUM 


387 


“Clerk  of  the  Bow  Bell”  all  along  the  Cheape 
There  came  a shout  that  swelled  into  a roar. 

“What!  Will  they  storm  the  Mermaid?”  Hey  wood 
laughed, 

“They  are  turning  into  Bread  Street!” 

Down  they  came! 

We  heard  them  hooting  round  the  poor  old  Clerk — 

“Clubs!  Clubs!  The  rogue  would  have  us  work  all  night! 
He  rang  ten  minutes  late!  Fifteen,  by  Paul's!” 

And  over  the  hubbub  rose,  like  a thin  bell, 

The  Clerk's  entreaty — “Now,  good  boys,  good  boys, 
Children  of  Cheape,  be  still,  I do  beseech  you! 

I took  some  forty  winks,  but  then  ...”  A roar 
Of  wrathful  laughter  drowned  him — “Forty  winks! 
Remember  Black  May-day!  We'll  make  you  wink!” 

There  was  a scuffle,  and  into  the  tavern  rushed 
Gregory  Clopton,  Clerk  of  the  Bow  Bell, — 

A tall  thin  man,  with  yellow  hair  a-stream, 

And  blazing  eyes. 

“Hide  me,”  he  clamoured,  “quick! 
These  picaroons  will  murder  me!” 

I closed 

The  thick  oak  doors  against  the  coloured  storm 
Of  prentices  in  red  and  green  and  ray, 

Saffron  and  Reading  tawny.  Twenty  clubs 
Drubbed  on  the  panels  as  I barred  them  out; 

And  even  our  walls  and  shutters  could  not  drown 
Their  song  that,  like  a mocking  peal  of  bells, 

Under  our  windows,  made  all  Bread  Street  ring: — 

“ Clerk  of  the  Bow  Bell , 

With  the  yellow  locks , 

For  thy  late  ringing 

Thy  head  shall  have  knocks /” 

Then  Heywood,  seeing  the  Clerk  was  all  a-quake, 

Went  to  an  upper  casement  that  o'er-looked 
The  whole  of  Bread  Street.  Heywood  knew  their  ways, 
And  parleyed  with  them  till  their  anger  turned 
To  shouts  of  merriment.  Then,  like  one  deep  bell 
His  voice  rang  out,  in  answer  to  their  peal: — 


388 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


“ Children  of  Cheape , 

Hold  you  all  still! 

You  shall  have  Bow  Bell 
Rung  at  your  will!” 

Loudly  they  cheered  him.  Courteously  he  bowed. 

Then  firmly  shut  the  window;  and,  ere  I filled 
His  cup  with  sack  again,  the  crowd  had  gone. 

“My  clochard,  sirs,  is  warm,”  quavered  the  Clerk* 

“I  do  confess  I took  some  forty  winks! 

They  are  good  lads*  our  prentices  of  Cheape, 

But  hasty!” 

“Wine!”  said  Ben.  He  filled  a cup 
And  thrust  it  into  Gregory’s  trembling  hands. 

“Yours  is  a task,”  said  Dekker,  “a  great  task! 

You  sit  among  the  gods,  a lord  of  time, 

Measuring  out  the  pulse  of  London’s  heart.” 

“Yea,  sir,  above  the  hours  and  days  and  years, 

I sometimes  think.  ’Tis  a great  Bell — the  Bow! 

And  hath  been,  since  the  days  of  Whittington.” 

“The  good  old  days,”  growled  Ben.  “Both  good  and  bad 
Were  measured  by  my  Bell,”  the  Clerk  replied. 

And,  while  he  spoke,  warmed  by  the  wine,  his  voice 
Mellowed  and  floated  up  and  down  the  scale 
As  if  the  music  of  the  London  bells 
Lingered  upon  his  tongue.  “I  know  them  all, 

And  love  them,  all  the  voices  of  the  bells. 

Flos  Mercatorum!  That’s  the  Bell  of  Bow 
Remembering  Richard  Whittington.  You  should  hear 
The  bells  of  London  when  they  tell  his  tale. 

Once,  after  hearing  them,  I wrote  it  down. 

I know  the  tale  by  heart  now,  every  turn.” 

“Then  ring  it  out,”  said  Heywood. 

Gregory  smiled 

And  cleared  his  throat. 

“You  must  imagine,  sirs, 

The  Clerk,  sitting  on  high,  among  the  clouds, 

With  London  spread  beneath  him  like  a map. 


FLOS  MERCATORUM 


389 


Under  his  tower,  a flock  of  prentices 
Calling  like  bells,  of  little  size  or  weight, 

But  bells  no  less,  ask  that  the  Bell  of  Bow 
Shall  tell  the  tale  of  Richard  Whittington, 

As  thus.” 

Then  Gregory  Clopton,  mellowing  all 
The  chiming  vowels,  and  dwelling  on  every  tone 
In  rhythm  or  rhyme  that  helped  to  swell  the  peal 
Or  keep  the  ringing  measure,  beat  for  beat, 

Chanted  this  legend  of  the  London  bells : — 

Clerk  of  the  Bow  Bell,  four  and  twenty  prentices, 

All  upon  a Hallowe'en,  we  prithee,  for  our  joy, 

Ring  a little  turn  again  for  sweet  Dick  Whittington, 

Flos  Mercatorum , and  a barefoot  boy! — • 

“ Children  of  Cheape,”  did  that  old  Clerk  answer, 

“You  will  have  a peal,  then,  for  well  may  you  know, 
All  the  bells  of  London  remember  Richard  Whittington 
When  they  hear  the  voice  of  the  big  Bell  of  Bow!” — 

Clerk  with  the  yellow  locks,  mellow  be  thy  malmsey ! 

He  was  once  a prentice,  and  carolled  in  the  Strand ! 

Ay,  and  we  are  all,  too,  Marchaunt  Adventurers, 
Prentices  of  London,  and  lords  of  Engeland. 

“Children  of  Cheape,”  did  that  old  Clerk  answer, 

“Hold  you,  ah  hold  you,  ah  hold  you  all  still! 

Souling  if  you  come  to  the  glory  of  a Prentice, 

You  shall  have  the  Bow  Bell  rung  at  your  will!” 

“Whittington!  Whittington!  O,  turn  again,  Y/hittington, 
Lord  Mayor  of  London,”  the  big  Bell  began: 

“Where  was  he  born?  0,  at  Pauntley  in  Gloucestershire 
Hard  by  Cold  Ashton,  Cold  Ashton,”  it  ran. 

uFlos  Mercatorum ,”  moaned  the  bell  of  All  Haliowes, 
“There  was  he  an  orphan,  O,  a little  lad  alone!” 

“Then  we  all  sang,”  echoed  happy  St.  Saviour's, 

“Called  him,  and  lured  him,  and  made  him  our  own. 


390 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Told  him  a tale  as  he  lay  upon  the  hillside, 

Looking  on  his  home  in  the  meadow-lands  below  !** 

“Told  him  a tale,”  clanged  the  bell  of  Cold  Abbey; 

“Told  him  the  truth,”  boomed  the  big  Bell  of  Bow! 

Sang  of  a City  that  was  like  a blazoned  missal-book, 

Black  with  oaken  gables,  carven  and  inscrolled; 

Every  street  a coloured  page,  and  every  sign  a hieroglyph, 
Dusky  with  enchantments,  a City  paved  with  gold; 

“Younger  son,  younger  son,  up  with  stick  and  bundle!” — 
Even  so  we  rung  for  him — “But — kneel  before  you  go; 

Watch  by  your  shield,  lad,  in  little  Pauntley  Chancel, 

Look  upon  the  painted  panes  that  hold  your  Arms  a-glow,— 

Coat  of  Gules  and  Azure;  but  the  proud  will  not  remember  if! 
And  the  Crest  a Lion’s  Head,  until  the  new  be  won ! 

Far  away,  remember  it!  And  O,  remember  this,  too, — • 

Every  barefoot  boy  on  earth  is  but  a younger  son.” 

Proudly  he  answered  us,  beneath  the  painted  window, — 
“Though  I be  a younger  son,  the  glory  falls  to  me: 

While  my  brother  bideth  by  a little  land  in  Gloucestershire, 
All  the  open  Earth  is  mine,  and  all  the  Ocean-sea. 

Yet  will  I remember,  yet  will  I remember, 

By  the  chivalry  of  God,  until  my  day  be  done, 

When  I meet  a gentle  heart,  lonely  and  unshielded, 

Every  barefoot  boy  on  earth  is  but  a younger  son!” 

Then  he  looked  to  Northward  for  the  tall  ships  of  Bristol; 

Far  away,  and  cold  as  death,  he  saw  the  Severn  shine: 

Then  he  looked  to  Eastward,  and  he  saw  a string  of  colours 
Trickling  through  the  grey  hills,  like  elfin  drops  of  wine; 

Down  along  the  Mendip  dale,  the  chapmen  and  their  horses, 
Far  away,  and  carrying  each  its  little  coloured  load, 

Winding  like  a fairy-tale,  with  pack  and  corded  bundle, 
Trickled  like  a crimson  thread  along  the  silver  road. 


FLOS  MERCATORUM 


391 


Quick  he  ran  to  meet  them,  stick  and  bundle  on  his  shoulder! 

Over  by  Cold  Ashton,  he  met  them  trampling  down, — 
White  shaggy  horses  with  their  packs  of  purple  spicery, 
Crimson  kegs  of  malmsey,  and  the  silks  of  London  town. 

When  the  chapmen  asked  of  him  the  bridle-path  to  Dorset, 
Blithely  he  showed  them,  and  he  led  them  on  their  way. 

Led  them  through  the  fern  with  their  bales  of  breathing 
Araby, 

Led  them  to  a bridle-path  that  saved  them  half  a day. 

Merrily  shook  the  silver  bells  that  hung  the  broidered  bridle- 
rein, 

Chiming  to  his  hand,  as  he  led  them  through  the  fern, 

Down  to  deep  Dorset,  and  the  w ooded  Isle  of  Purbeck, 

Then — by  little  Kimmeridge  — they  led  him  turn  for  turn. 

Down  by  little  Kimmeridge,  and  up  by  Hampshire  forest- 
roads, 

Round  by  Sussex  violets,  and  apple-bloom  of  Kent, 

Singing  songs  of  London,  telling  tales  of  London, 

All  the  way  to  London,  with  packs  of  wool  they  went. 

“ London  was  London,  then!  A clean,  clear  moat 
Girdled  her  walls  that  measured,  round  about, 

Three  miles  or  less.  She  is  big  and  dirty  now/! 

Said  Dekker. 

“Call  it  a silver  moat,”  growled  Ben, 
“That’s  the  new  poetry!  Call  it  crystal,  lad! 

But,  till  you  kiss  the  Beast,  you’ll  never  find 
Your  Fairy  Prince.  Why,  all  those  crowded  streets, 

Flung  all  their  filth,  their  refuse,  rags  and  bones, 

Dead  cats  and  dogs,  into  your  clean  clear  moat, 

And  made  it  sluggish  as  old  Acheron. 

Fevers  and  plagues,  death  in  a thousand  shapes 
Crawled  out  of  it.  London  was  dirty,  lad; 

And  till  you  kiss  that  fact,  you’ll  never  see 
The  glory  of  this  old  Jerusalem!” 

“Ay,  ’tis  the  fogs  that  make  the  sunset  red,” 

Answered  Tom  Hey  wood.  “London  is  earthy,  coarse, 

Grimy  and  grand.  You  must  make  dirt  the  ground, 


392 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Or  lose  the  colours  of  friend  Clopton’s  tale. 

Ring  on!”  And,  nothing  loth,  the  Clerk  resumed: — 

Bravely  swelled  his  heart  to  see  the  moat  of  London  glittering 
Round  her  mighty  wall — they  told  him — two  miles  long! 
Then — he  gasped  as,  echoing  in  by  grim  black  Aldgate, 

Suddenly  their  shaggy  nags  were  nodding  through  a 
throng : 

Prentices  in  red  and  ray,  marchaunts  in  their  saffron, 
Aldermen  in  violets,  and  minstrels  in  white, 

Clerks  in  homely  hoods  of  budge,  and  wives  with  crimson 
■wimples, 

Thronging  as  to  welcome  him  that  happy  summer  night. 

“Back,”  they  cried,  and  “Clear  the  way,”  and  caught  the 
ringing  bridle-reins: 

“Wait!  the  Watch  is  going  by,  this  vigil  of  St.  John!” 
Merrily  laughed  the  chapmen  then,  reining  their  great  white 
horses  back, 

“When  the  pageant  passes,  lad,  we’ll  up  and  follow  on!” 

There,  as  thick  the  crowd  surged,  beneath  the  blossomed  ale- 
poles, 

Lifting  up  to  Whittington  a fair  face  afraid, 

Swept  against  his  horse  by  a billow  of  madcap  prentices, 

Hard  against  the  stirrup  breathed  a green-gowned  maid. 

Swift  he  drew  her  up  and  up,  and  throned  her  there  before 
him, 

High  above  the  throng  with  her  laughing  April  eyes, 

Like  a Queen  of  Faerie  on  the  great  pack-saddle. 

“Hey!”  laughed  the  chapmen,  “the  prentice  wins  the  prize!” 

“Whittington!  Whittington!  the  world  is  all  before  you!” 
Blithely  rang  the  bells  and  the  steeples  rocked  and  reeled! 
Then — he  saw  her  eyes  grow  wide,  and,  all  along  by  Leaden 
Hall, 

Drums  rolled,  earth  shook,  and  shattering  trumpets  pealed. 


FLOS  MERCATORUM 


393 


Like  a marching  sunset,  there,  from  Leaden  Hall  to  Aldgate, 
Flared  the  crimson  cressets — O,  her  brows  were  haloed 
then ! — 

Then  the  stirring  steeds  went  by  with  all  their  mounted 
trumpeters, 

Then,  in  ringing  harness,  a thousand  marching  men. 

Marching — marching — his  heart  and  all  the  halberdiers, 

And  his  pulses  throbbing  with  the  throbbing  of  the  drums; 
Marching — marching — his  blood  and  all  the  burganets! 

“Look,”  she  cried,  “ 0,  look,”  she  cried,  “ and  now  the  morrice 
comes!” 

Dancing — dancing — her  eyes  and  all  the  Lincoln  Green, 

Robin  Hood  and  Friar  Tuck,  dancing  through  the  town! 
“Where  is  Marian?”  Laughingly  she  turned  to  Richard 
Whittington. 

“Here,”  he  said,  and  pointed  to  her  own  green  gown. 

Dancing — dancing — her  heart  and  all  the  morrice-bells ! 

Then  there  burst  a mighty  shout  from  thrice  a thousand 
throats ! 

Then,  with  all  their  bows  bent,  and  sheaves  of  peacock  arrows, 
Marched  the  tall  archers  in  their  white  silk  coats, 

White  silk  coats,  with  the  crest  of  London  City 
Crimson  on  the  shoulder,  a sign  for  all  to  read, — 

Marching — marching — and  then  the  sworded  henchmen, 

Then,  William  Walworth,  on  his  great  stirring  steed. 

Flos  Mercatorum , ay,  the  fish-monger,  Walworth, — 

He  whose  nets  of  silk  drew  the  silver  from  the  tide, 

He  who  saved  the  king  when  the  king  was  but  a prentice, — ' 
Lord  Mayor  of  London,  with  his  swrord  at  his  side! 

Burned  with  magic  changes,  his  blood  and  all  the  pageantry; 

Burned  with  deep  sea-changes,  the  wonder  in  her  eyes; 

Flos  Mercatorum!  'Twas  the  rose-mary  of  Paphos, 

Reddening  all  the  City  for  the  prentice  and  his  prize! 


394 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


All  the  book  of  London,  the  pages  of  adventure, 

Passed  before  the  prentice  on  that  vigil  of  St.  John: 

Then  the  chapmen  shook  their  reins, — “We’ll  ride  behind  the 
revelry, 

Round  again  to  Cornhill!  Up,  and  follow  on!” 

Riding  on  his  pack-horse,  above  the  shouting  multitude, 

There  she  turned  and  smiled  at  him,  and  thanked  him  for  his 
grace : 

“Let  me  down  by  Red  Rose  Lane”  and,  like  a wave  of  twilight 
While  she  spoke,  her  shadowy  hair — touched  his  tingling 
face. 

When  they  came  to  Red  Rose  Lane , beneath  the  blossomed  ale- 
poles, 

Light  along  his  arm  she  lay,  a moment,  leaping  down : 

Then  she  waved  “farewell”  to  him,  and  down  the  Lane  be 
watched  her 

Flitting  through  the  darkness  in  her  gay  green  gown. 

All  along  the  Cheape,  as  he  rode  among  the  chapmen, 

Round  by  Black  Friars , to  the  Two-Necked  Swan 
Coloured  like  the  sunset,  prentices  and  maidens 
Danced  for  red  roses  on  the  vigil  of  St.  John. 

* 

Over  them  were  jewelled  lamps  in  great  black  galleries, 
Garlanded  with  beauty,  and  burning  all  the  night; 

All  the  doors  were  shadowy  with  orpin  and  St.  John’s  wort, 
Long  fennel,  green  birch,  and  lilies  of  delight. 

“He  should  have  slept  here  at  the  Mermaid  Inn,” 

Said  Heywood  as  the  chanter  paused  for  breath. 

“What?  Has  our  Mermaid  sung  so  long?”  cried  Ben. 

“Her  beams  are  black  enough.  There  was  an  Inn,” 

Said  Tom,  “that  bore  the  name;  and  through  its  heart 
There  flowed  the  right  old  purple.  I like  to  think 
It  was  the  same,  where  Lydgate  took  his  ease 
After  his  hood  was  stolen;  and  Gower,  perchance; 

And,  though  he  loved  the  Tabard  for  a-while, 

I like  to  think  the  Father  of  us  all, 


FLOS  MERCATORUM 


395 


The  old  Adam  of  English  minstrelsy  caroused 
Here  in  the  Mermaid  Tavern.  I like  to  think 
Jolly  Dan  Chaucer,  with  his  kind  shrewd  face 
Fresh  as  an  apple  above  his  fur-fringed  gown, 

One  plump  hand  sporting  with  his  golden  chain, 
Looked  out  from  that  old  casement  over  the  sign, 

And  saw  the  pageant,  and  the  shaggy  nags, 

With  Whittington,  and  his  green-gowned  maid,  go  by. 

“O,  very  like,”  said  Clopton,  “for  the  bells 
Left  not  a head  indoors  that  night.”  He  drank 
A draught  of  malmsey — and  thus  renewed  his  tale: — 


“Flos  Mercatorum  mourned  the  bell  of  All  Hallowes, 
“There  was  he  an  orphan,  O,  a little  lad  alone, 

Rubbing  down  the  great  white  horses  for  a supperl” 

“True,”  boomed  the  Bow  Bell,  “his  hands  were  his  own!” 


Where  did  he  sleep?  On  a plump  white  wool-pack, 

Open  to  the  moon  on  that  vigil  of  St.  John, 

Sheltered  from  the  dew,  where  the  black-timbered  gallery 
Frowned  above  the  yard  of  the  Two-Necked  Swan. 


Early  in  the  morning,  clanged  the  bell  of  St.  Martin’s, 
Early  in  the  morning,  with  a groat  in  his  hand, 
Mournfully  he  parted  with  the  jolly-hearted  chapmen, 
Shouldered  his  bundle  and  walked  into  the  Strand; 


Walked  into  the  Strand,  and  back  again  to  West  Cheape , 
Staring  at  the  wizardry  of  every  painted  sign, 

Dazed  with  the  steeples  and  the  rich  heraldic  cornices 
Drinking  in  the  colours  of  the  Cheape  like  wine. 


All  about  the  booths  now,  the  parti-coloured  prentices 
Fluted  like  a flock  of  birds  along  a summer  lane, 

Green  linnets,  red  caps,  and  gay  gold  finches, — 

What  d’ye  lack , and  what  d’ye  lack , and  what  d’ye  lack  again ? 


396 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


“Bu3r  my  dainty  doublets,  cut  on  double  taffetas, 

Buy  my  Paris  thread,”  they  cried,  and  caught  him  by  the 
hand, 

“ Laces  for  your  Hearth-Delight,  and  lawns  to  make  her  love 
you, 

Cambric  for  her  wimple,  O,  the  finest  in  the  land.” 

Ah,  but  he  was  hungry,  foot-sore,  weary, 

Knocking  at  the  doors  of  the  armourers  that  day! 

What  d’ye  lack ? they  asked  of  him;  but  no  man  lacked  a pren- 
tice: 

When  he  told  them  what  he  lacked,  they  frowned  and  turned 
away. 

Hard  was  his  bed  that  night,  beneath  a cruel  archway, 

Down  among  the  hulks,  with  his  heart  growing  cold! 
London  is  a rare  town,  but  O,  the  streets  of  London, 

Red  though  their  flints  be,  they  are  not  red  with  gold. 

Pale  in  the  dawn,  ere  he  marched  on  his  adventure, 

Starving  for  a crust,  did  he  kneel  a-while  again, 

Then,  upon  the  fourth  night,  he  cried,  0,  like  a wounded  bird 
“Let  me  die,  if  die  I must,  in  Red  Rose  Lane” 

Like  a little  wounded  bird  he  trailed  through  the  darkness, 
Laid  him  on  a door-step,  and  then — O,  like  a breath 
Pitifully  blowing  out  his  life,s  little  rushlight, 

Came  a gush  of  blackness,  a swoon  deep  as  death. 

Then  he  heard  a rough  voice!  Then  he  saw  a lanthorn! 

Then  he  saw  a bearded  face,  and  blindly  wondered  whose: 
Then — a marchaunt’s  portly  legs,  with  great  Rose-Windows, 
Bigger  than  St.  PauPs,  he  thought,  embroidered  on  his  shoes. 

“Alice!”  roared  the  voice,  and  then,  0 like  a lilied  angel. 

Leaning  from  the  lighted  door  a fair  face  afraid, 

Leaning  over  Red  Rose  Lane , O,  leaning  out  of  Paradise, 
Drooped  the  sudden  glory  of  his  green-gowned  maid! 

“0,  mellow  be  thy  malmsey,”  grunted  Ben, 

Filling  the  Clerk  another  cup. 


FLOS  MERCATORUM 


397 


“The  peal,” 

Quoth  Clopton,  “is  not  ended,  but  the  pause 
In  ringing,  chimes  to  a deep  inward  ear 
And  tells  its  own  deep  tale.  Silence  and  sound, 
Darkness  and  light,  mourning  and  mirth, — no  tale, 

No  painting,  and  no  music,  nay,  no  world, 

If  God  should  cut  their  fruitful  marriage-knot. 

A shallow  sort  to-day  would  fain  deny 
A hell,  sirs,  to  this  boundless  universe. 

To  such  I say  ‘no  hell,  no  Paradise  !> 

Others  would  fain  deny  the  topless  towers 
Of  heaven,  and  make  this  earth  a hell  indeed. 

To  such  I say,  ‘the  unplumbed  gulfs  of  grief 

Are  only  theirs  for  whom  the  blissful  chimes 

Ring  from  those  unseen  heights/  This  earth,  mid-way. 

Hangs  like  a belfry  where  the  ringers  grasp 

Their  ropes  in  darkness,  each  in  his  own  place, 

Each  knowing,  by  the  tune  in  his  own  heart, 

Never  by  sight,  when  he  must  toss  through  heaven 
The  tone  of  his  own  bell.  Those  bounded  souls 
Have  never  heard  our  chimes!  Why,  sirs,  myself 
Simply  by  running  up  and  down  the  scale 
Descend  to  hell  or  soar  to  heaven.  My  bells 
Height  above  height,  deep  below  deep,  respond! 

Their  scale  is  infinite.  Dare  I,  for  one  breath, 

Dream  that  one  note  hath  crowned  and  ended  all, 
Sudden  I hear,  far,  far  above  those  clouds, 

Like  laughing  angels,  peal  on  golden  peal, 

Innumerable  as  drops  of  April  rain, 

Yet  every  note  distinct,  round  as  a pearl, 

And  perfect  in  its  place,  a chime  of  law, 

Whose  pure  and  boundless  mere  arithmetic 
Climbs  with  my  soul  to  God.” 

Ben  looked  at  him, 

Gently.  “Resume,  old  moralist,”  he  said. 

“On  to  thy  marriage-bells!” 

“The  fairy-tales 
Are  wiser  than  they  know,  sirs.  All  our^woes 
Lead  on  to  those  celestial  marriage-bells. 

The  world's  a-wooing;  and  the  pure  City  of  God 
Peals  for  the  wedding  of  our  joy  and  pain! 


398 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


This  was  well  seen  of  Richard  Whittington; 

For  only  he  that  finds  the  London  streets 
Paved  with  red  flints,  at  last  shall  find  them  paved 
Like  to  the  Perfect  City,  with  pure  gold. 

Ye  know  the  wrorld!  what  was  a London  waif 
To  Hugh  Fitzwarren’s  daughter?  He  was  fed 
And  harboured;  and  the  cook  declared  she  lacked 
A scullion.  So,  in  Hugh  Fitzwarren’s  house, 

He  turned  the  jack,  and  scoured  the  dripping-pan. 

How  could  he  hope  for  more? 

This  marchaunt’s  house 
Was  builded  like  a great  high-gabled  inn, 

Square,  with  a galleried  courtyard,  such  as  now 
The  players  use.  Its  rooms  were  rich  and  dim 
With  deep-set  coloured  panes  and  massy  beams. 

Its  ancient  eaves  jutted  o’er  Red  Rose  Lane 
Darkly,  like  eyebrows  of  a mage  asleep. 

Its  oaken  stair  coiled  upward  through  a dusk 
Heavy  with  fume  of  scented  woods  that  burned 
To  keep  the  Plague  away, — a gloom  to  embalm 
A Pharaoh,  but  to  dull  the  cheek  and  eye 
Of  country  lads  like  Whittington. 

He  pined 

For  wind  and  sunlight.  Yet  he  plied  his  task 
Patient  as  in  old  tales  of  Elfin-land, 

The  young  knight  would  unhelm  his  golden  locks 
And  play  the  scullion,  so  that  he  might  watch 
His  lady’s  eyes  unknown,  and  oftener  hear 
Her  brook-like  laughter  rippling  overhead; 

Her  green  gown,  like  the  breath  of  Eden  boughs, 
Rustling  nigh  him.  And  all  day  long  he  found 
Sunshine  enough  in  this.  But  when  at  night 
He  crept  into  the  low  dark  vaulted  den, 

The  cobwebbed  cellar,  where  the  cook  had  strewn 
The  scullion’s  bed  of  straw  (and  none  too  thick 
Lest  he  should  sleep  too  long),  he  choked  for  breath; 
And,  like  an  old  man  hoarding  up  his  life, 

Fostered  his  glimmering  rushlight  as  he  sate 
Bolt  upright,  while  a horrible  scurry  heaved 
His  rustling  bed,  and  bright  black-beaded  eyes 
Peered  at  him  from  the  crannies  of  the  wrall. 


FLOS  MERCATORUM 


Then  darkness  whelmed  him,  and  perchance  he  slept, - 
Only  to  fight  with  nightmares  and  to  fly 
Down  endless  tunnels  in  a ghastly  dream, 

Hunted  by  horrible  human  souls  that  took 

The  shape  of  monstrous  rats,  great  chattering  snouts. 

Vile  shapes  of  shadowy  cunning  and  grey  greed, 

That  gnaw  through  beams,  and  undermine  tall  towns, 
And  carry  the  seeds  of  plague  and  ruin  and  death 
Under  the  eareless  homes  of  sleeping  men. 

Thus,  in  the  darkness,  did  he  wage  a war 
With  all  the  powers  of  darkness.  Tf  the  light 
Do  break  upon  me,  by  the  grace  of  God/ 

So  did  he  vow,  ‘0,  then  will  I remember, 

Then,  then,  will  I remember,  ay,  and  help 
To  build  that  lovelier  City  which  is  paved 
For  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  purest  gold/ 

Ah,  sirs,  he  kept  his  vow.  Ye  will  not  smile 
If,  at  the  first,  the  best  that  he  could  do 
Was  with  his  first  poor  penny-piece  to  buy 
A cat,  and  bring  her  home,  under  his  coat 
By  stealth  (or  else  that  termagant,  the  cook, 

Had  drowned  it  in  the  water-butt,  nor  deemed 
The  water  worse  to  drink).  So  did  he  quell 
* First  his  own  plague,  but  bettered  others,  too. 

Now,  in  those  days,  Marchaunt  Adventurers 

Shared  with  their  prentices  the  happy  chance 

Of  each  new  venture.  Each  might  have  his  stake, 

Little  or  great,  upon  the  glowing  tides 

Of  high  romance  that  washed  the  wharfs  of  Thames; 

And  every  lad  in  London  had  his  groat 

Or  splendid  shilling  on  some  fair  ship  at  sea. 

So,  on  an  April  eve,  Fitzwarren  called 
His  prentices  together;  for,  ere  long, 

The  Unicorn , his  tall  new  ship,  must  sail 
Beyond  the  world  to  gather  gorgeous  webs 
From  Eastern  looms,  great  miracles  of  silk 
Dipt  in  the  dawn  by  wizard  hands  of  Ind; 

Or,  if  they  chanced  upon  that  fabled  coast 
Where  Sydon,  river  of  jewels,  like  a snake 


400 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Slides  down  the  gorge  its  coils  of  crimson  fire, 

Perchance  a richer  cargo, — rubies,  pearls, 

Or  gold  bars  from  the  Gates  of  Paradise. 

And  many  a moon,  at  least,  a faerie  foam 
Would  lap  Blackfriars  wharf,  where  London  lads 
Gazed  in  the  sunset  down  that  misty  reach 
For  old  black  battered  hulks  and  tattered  sails 
Bringing  their  dreams  home  from  the  uncharted  sea. 

And  one  flung  down  a groat — he  had  no  more. 

One  staked  a shilling,  one  a good  French  crown; 

And  one  an  angel,  0,  light-winged  enough 
To  reach  Cathay;  and  not  a lad  but  bought 
His  pennyworth  of  wonder, 

So  they  thought, 

Till  all  at  once  Fitzwarren’s  daughter  cried 
1 Father,  you  have  forgot  poor  Whittington ! ’ 

“Snails/  laughed  the  rosy  marchaunt,  ‘but  that’s  true! 
Fetch  Whittington!  The  lad  must  stake  his  groat! 

Twill  bring  us  luck!’ 

‘ Whittington ! Whittington ! ’ 
Down  the  dark  stair,  like  a gold-headed  bird, 

Fluttered  sweet  Alice.  ‘Whittington!  Richard!  Quick! 
Quick  with  your  groat  now  for  the  Unicorn! 9 

‘A  groat!’  cried  Whittington,  standing  there  aghast, 

With  brown  bare  arms,  still  coloured  by  the  sun, 

Among  his  pots  and  pans.  ‘ Where  should  I find 
A groat?  I staked  my  last  groat  in  a cat!  ’ 

— ‘ What!  Have  you  nothing?  Nothing  but  a cat? 

Then  stake  the  cat/  she  said;  and  the  quick  fire 
That  in  a woman’s  mind  out-runs  the  thought 
Of  man,  lit  her  grey  eyes. 

Whittington  laughed 

And  opened  the  cellar-door.  Out  sailed  his  wealth, 
Waving  its  tail,  purring,  and  rubbing  its  head 
Now  on  his  boots,  now  on  the  dainty  shoe 
Of  Alice,  who  straightway,  deaf  to  his  laughing  prayers. 
Caught  up  the  cat,  whispered  it,  hugged  it  close, 

Against  its  grey  fur  leaned  her  glowing  cheek, 

And  carried  it  off  in  triumph. 


FLOS  MERCATORUM 


401 


Red  Rose  Lane 

Echoed  with  laughter  as,  with  amber  eyes 
Blinking,  the  grey  cat  in  a seaman's  arms 
Went  to  the  wharf.  4 Ay,  but  we  need  a cat/ 

The  captain  said.  So,  when  the  painted  ship 
Sailed  through  a golden  sunrise  down  the  Thames, 
A grey  tail  waved  upon  the  misty  poop, 

And  Whittington  had  his  venture  on  the  seas. 

It  was  a nine  days'  jest,  and  soon  forgot. 

But,  all  that  year, — ah,  sirs,  ye  know  the  world, 
For  all  the  foolish  boasting  of  the  proud, 

Looks  not  beneath  the  coat  of  Taunton  serge 
For  Gules  and  Azure.  A prince  that  comes  in  rags 
To  clean  your  shoes  and,  out  of  his  own  pride, 
Waits  for  the  world  to  paint  his  shield  again 
Must  wait  for  ever  and  a day. 

The  world 

Is  a great  hypocrite,  hypocrite  most  of  all 
When  thus  it  boasts  its  purple  pride  of  race, 

Then  with  eyes  blind  to  all  but  pride  of  place 
Tramples  the  scullion's  heraldry  underfoot, 

Nay,  never  sees  it,  never  dreams  of  it, 

Content  to  know  that,  here  and  now,  his  coat 
Is  greasy  . . . 

So  did  Whittington  find  at  last 
Such  nearness  was  most  distant;  that  to  see  her, 
Talk  with  her,  serve  her  thus,  was  but  to  lose 
True  sight,  true  hearing.  He  must  save  his  life 
By  losing  it;  forsake,  to  win,  his  love; 

Go  out  into  the  world  to  bring  her  home. 

It  was  but  labour  lost  to  clean  the  shoes, 

And  turn  the  jack,  and  scour  the  dripping-pan. 

For  every  scolding  blown  about  her  ears 
The  cook's  great  ladle  fell  upon  the  head 
Of  Whittington;  who,  beneath  her  rule,  became 
The  scullery's  general  scapegoat.  It  was  he 
That  burned  the  pie-crust,  drank  the  hippocras, 
Dinted  the  silver  beaker.  . . . 

Many  a month 

He  chafed,  till  his  resolve  took  sudden  shape 
26 


402 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


And,  out  of  the  dark  house  at  the  peep  of  day, 

Shouldering  bundle  and  stick  again,  he  stole 
To  seek  his  freedom,  and  to  shake  the  dust 
Of  London  from  his  shoes.  . . . 

You  know  the  stone 

On  Highgate,  where  he  sate  awhile  to  rest, 

With  aching  heart,  and  thought  ‘ I shall  not  see 
Her  face  again.’  There,  as  the  coloured  dawn 
Over  the  sleeping  City  slowly  bloomed, 

A small  black  battered  ship  with  tattered  sails 
Blurring  the  burnished  glamour  of  the  Thames 
Crept,  side-long  to  a wharf. 

Then,  all  at  once, 

The  London  bells  rang  out  a welcome  home; 

And,  over  them  all,  tossing  the  tenor  on  high, 

The  Bell  of  Bow,  a sun  among  the  stars, 

Flooded  the  morning  air  wdth  this  refrain : — 

‘Turn  again,  "Whittington!  Turn  again,  Whittington! 

Flos  Mercatorum , thy  ship  hath  come  home! 

Trailing  from  her  cross-trees  the  crimson  of  the  sunrise, 
Dragging  all  the  glory  of  the  sunset  thro’  the  foam. 

Turn  again,  Whittington, 

Turn  again,  Whittington, 

Lord  Mayor  of  Lo'ndon! 

Turn  again,  Whittington!  When  thy  hope  was  darkest, 

Far  beyond  the  sky-line  a ship  sailed  for  thee. 

Flos  Mercatorum , O,  when  thy  faith  was  blindest, 

Even  then  thy  sails  wrere  set  beyond  the  Ocean-sea.’ 

So  he  heard  and  heeded  us,  and  turned  again  to  London, 

Stick  and  bundle  on  his  back,  he  turned  to  Red  Rose  Lane , 
Hardly  hearing  as  he  went  the  chatter  of  the  prentices, — 
What  d’ye  lack , and  what  d’ye  lack , and  what  d’ye  lack  again? 

Back  into  the  scullery,  before  the  cook  had  missed  him, 
Early  in  the  morning  his  labours  he  began: 

Once  again  to  clean  the  shoes  and  clatter  with  the  water-pail. 
Once  again  to  scrub  the  jack  and  scour  the  dripping-pan. 


FLOS  MERCATORUM 


403 


All  the  bells  of  London  were  pealing  as  he  laboured. 

Wildly  beat  his  heart,  and  his  blood  began  to  race. 

Then — there  came  a light  step  and,  suddenly,  beside  him 
Stood  his  lady  Alice,  with  a light  upon  her  face. 

‘Quick/  she  said,  ‘O,  quick/  she  said,  ‘they  want  you, 
Richard  Whittington !* 

‘Quick/  she  said;  and,  while  she  spoke,  her  lighted  eyes 
betrayed 

All  that  she  had  hidden  long,  and  all  she  still  would  hide  from 
him. 

So — he  turned  and  followed  her,  his  green-gowned  maid. 

There,  in  a broad  dark  oaken-panelled  room 
Rich  with  black  carvings  and  great  gleaming  cups 
Of  silver,  sirs,  and  massy  halpace  built 
Half  over  Red  Rose  Laney  Fitz warren  sat; 

And,  at  his  side,  O,  like  an  old  romance 
That  suddenly  comes  true  and  fills  the  world 
With  April  colours,  two  bronzed  seamen  stood, 

Tattered  and  scarred,  and  stained  with  sun  and  brine. 

‘j Flos  Mercatorum / Hugh  Fitz  warren  cried, 

Holding  both  hands  out  to  the  pale-faced  boy, 

‘The  prentice  wins  the  prize!  Why,  Whittington, 

Thy  cat  hath  caught  the  biggest  mouse  of  all! > 

And,  on  to  the  table,  tilting  a heavy  sack, 

One  of  the  seamen  poured  a glittering  stream 
Of  rubies,  emeralds,  opals,  amethysts, 

That  turned  the  room  to  an  Aladdin’s  cave, 

Or  magic  goblet  brimmed  with  dusky  wine 
Where  clustering  rainbow-coloured  bubbles  clung 
And  sparkled,  in  the  halls  of  Prester  John. 

‘And  that/  said  Hugh  Fitzwarren,  ‘is  the  price 
Paid  for  your  cat  in  Barbary,  by  a King 
Whose  house  was  rich  in  gems,  but  sorely  plagued 
With  rats  and  mice.  Gather  it  up,  my  lad, 

And  praise  your  master  for  his  honesty; 

For,  though  my  cargo  prospered,  yours  outshines 
The  best  of  it.  Take  it,  my  lad,  and  go; 

You’re  a rich  man;  and,  if  you  use  it  well, 


404 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Riches  will  make  you  richer,  and  the  world 
Will  prosper  in  your  own  prosperity. 

The  miser,  like  the  cold  and  barren  moon, 

Shines  with  a fruitless  light.  The  spendthrift  fool 
Flits  like  a Jack-o-Lent  over  quags  and  fens; 

But  he  that’s  wisely  rich  gathers  his  gold 
Into  a fruitful  and  un wasting  sun 
That  spends  its  glory  on  a thousand  fields 
And  blesses  all  the  world.  Take  it  and  go.’ 

Blankly,  as  in  a dream,  Whittington  stared. 

‘How  should  I take  it,  sir?  The  ship  was  yours, 

And  . . .* 

c Ay,  the  ship  was  mine;  but  in  that  ship 
Your  stake  was  richer  than  we  knew.  ’Tis  yours.’ 
‘Then,’  answered  Whittington,  ‘if  this  wealth  be  mine, 
Who  but  an  hour  ago  was  all  so  poor, 

I know  one  way  to  make  me  richer  still.’ 

He  gathered  up  the  glittering  sack  of  gems, 

Turned  to  the  halpace,  where  his  green-gowned  maid 
Stood  in  the  glory  of  the  coloured  panes. 

He  thrust  the  splendid  load  into  her  arms, 

Muttering — ‘Take  it,  lady!  Let  me  be  poor! 

But  rich,  at  least,  in  that  you  not  despise 
The  waif  you  saved.’ 

— ‘Despise  you,  Whittington?  ’ — 
‘0,  no,  not  in  the  sight  of  God!  But  I 
Grow  tired  of  waiting  for  the  Judgment  Day! 

I am  but  a man.  I am  a scullion  now; 

But  I would  like,  only  for  half  an  hour, 

To  stand  upright  and  say  “I  am  a king!” 

Take  it!’ 

And,  as  they  stood,  a little  apart, 

Their  eyes  were  married  in  one  swift  level  look, 

Silent,  but  all  that  souls  could  say  was  said. 

And 

‘I  know  a way,’  said  the  Bell  of  St.  Martin’s. 

‘Tell  it,  and  be  quick,’  laughed  the  prentices  below! 
‘Whittington  shall  marry  her,  marry  her,  marry  her! 

Peal  for  a wedding,’  said  the  big  Bell  of  Bow. 


FLOS  MERCATORUM 


405 


He  shall  take  a kingdom  up,  and  cast  it  on  the  sea  again; 

He  shall  have  his  caravels  to  traffic  for  him  now; 

He  shall  see  his  royal  sails  rolling  up  from  Araby, 

And  the  crest — a honey-bee — golden  at  the  prow. 

Whittington!  Whittington!  The  world  is  all  a fairy  tale! — 
Even  so  we  sang  for  him. — But  O,  the  tale  is  true! 

Whittington  he  married  her,  and  on  his  merry  marriage-day, 
0,  we  sang,  we  sang  for  him,  like  lavrocks  in  the  blue. 

Far  away  from  London,  these  happy  prentice  lovers 
Wandered  through  the  fern  to  his  western  home  again, 

Down  by  deep  Dorset  to  the  wooded  isle  of  Purbeck, 

Round  to  little  Kimmeridge,  by  many  a lover's  lane. 

There  did  they  abide  as  in  a dove-cote  hidden 

Deep  in  happy  woods  until  the  bells  of  duty  rang; 

Then  they  rode  the  way  he  went,  a barefoot  boy  to  London, 
Round  by  Hampshire  forest-roads,  but  as  they  rode  he 
sang: — 

Kimmeridge  in  Dorset  is  the  happiest  of  places ! 

All  the  little  homesteads  are  thatched  with  beauty  there! 

All  the  old  ploughmen , there , have  happy  smiling  faces, 

Christmas  roses  in  their  cheeks , and  crowns  of  silver  hair . 

Blue  as  are  the  eggs  in  the  nest  of  the  hedge-sparrow , 

Gleam  the  little  rooms  in  the  homestead  that  I know: 

Death , I think , has  lost  the  way  to  Kimmeridge  in  Dorset; 
Sorrow  never  knew  it,  or  forgot  it,  long  ago! 

Kimmeridge  in  Dorset,  Kimmeridge  in  Dorset, 

Though  1 may  not  see  you  more  throf  all  the  years  to  be, 

Yet  will  1 remember  the  little  happy  homestead 
Hidden  in  that  Paradise  where  God  was  good  to  me . 

So  they  turned  to  London,  and  with  mind  and  soul  he  laboured, 
Flos  Mercatorum,  for  the  mighty  years  to  be, 

Fashioning,  for  profit — to  the  years  that  should  forget  him* — • 
This,  our  sacred  City  that  must  shine  upon  the  sea. 


406 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


London  was  a City  when  the  Poulters  ruled  the  Poultry! 

Rosaries  of  prayer  were  hung  in  Paternoster  Row, 

Gutter  Lane  was  Guthrun’s,  then;  and,  bright  with  painted 
missal-books, 

Ave  Mary  Corner,  sirs,  was  fairer  than  ye  know. 

London  was  mighty  when  her  m archaunts  loved  their  mer- 
chandise, V 

Bales  of  Eastern  magic  that  empurpled  wharf  and  quay: 
London  was  mighty  when  her  booths  were  a dream-market, 
Loaded  with  the  colours  of  the  sunset  and  the  sea. 

There,  in  all  their  glory,  with  the  Virgin  on  their  bannerols, 
Glory  out  of  Genoa,  the  Mercers  might  be  seen, 

Walking  to  their  Company  of  Marchaunt  Adventurers; — 
Gallantly  they  jetted  it  in  scarlet  and  in  green. 

There,  in  all  the  glory  of  the  lordly  Linen  Armourers, 

Walked  the  Marchaunt  Taylors  with  the  Pilgrim  of  their 
trade, 

Fresh  from  adventuring  in  Italy  and  Flanders, 

Flos  Mercatorum , for  a green-gowned  maid. 

Flos  Mercatorum ! Can  a good  thing  come  of  Nazareth?, 

High  above  the  darkness,  where  our  duller  senses  drown, 
Lifts  the  splendid  Vision  of  a City,  built  on  merchandise, 
Fairer  than  that  City  of  Light  that  wore  the  violet  crown, 

Lifts  the  sacred  vision  of  a far-resplendent  City, 

Flashing,  like  the  heart  of  heaven,  its  messages  afar, 
Trafficking,  as  God  Himself  through  all  His  interchanging 
worlds, 

Holding  up  the  scales  of  law,  weighing  star  by  star, 

Stern  as  Justice,  in  one  hand  the  sword  of  Truth  and  Right- 
eousness; 

Blind  as  Justice,  in  one  hand  the  everlasting  scales, 

Lifts  the  sacred  Vision  of  that  City  from  the  darkness, 

Whence  the  thoughts  of  men  break  out,  like  blossoms,  or 
like  sails ! 


FLOS  MERCATORUM 


407 


Ordered  and  harmonious,  a City  built  to  music, 
Lifting,  out  of  chaos,  the  shining  towers  of  law, — 
Ay,  a sacred  City,  and  a City  built  of  merchandise, 
Flos  Mercatorum , was  the  City  that  he  saw. 


And  by  that  light, ” quoth  Clopton,  “did  he  keep 
His  promise.  He  was  rich;  but  in  his  will 
He  wrote  those  words  which  should  be  blazed  with  gold 
In  London’s  Liber  Albus: — 


The  desire 

And  busy  intention  of  a man , devout 
And  wise , should  be  to  fore-cast  and  secure 
The  state  and  end  of  this  short  life  with  deeds 
Of  mercy  and  pity , especially  to  provide 
For  those  whom  poverty  insulteth,  those 
To  whom  the  power  of  labouring  for  the  needs 
Of  life , is  interdicted. 

He  became 

The  Father  of  the  City.  Felons  died 
Of  fever  in  old  Newgate.  He  rebuilt 
The  prison.  London  sickened  from  the  lack 
Of  water,  and  he  made  fresh  fountains  flow. 

He  heard  the  cry  of  suffering  and  disease, 

And  built  the  stately  hospital  that  still 

Shines  like  an  angel’s  lanthorn  through  the  night, 

The  stately  halls  of  St.  Bartholomew. 

He  saw  men  wrapt  in  ignorance,  and  he  raised 
Schools,  colleges,  and  libraries.  He  heard 
The  cry  of  the  old  and  weary,  and  he  built 
Houses  of  refuge. 

Even  so  he  kept 

His  prentice  vows  of  Duty,  Industry, 

Obedience,  words  contemned  of  every  fool 

Who  shrinks  from  law;  yet  were  those  ancient  vows 

The  adamantine  pillars  of  the  State. 

Let  all  who  play  their  Samson  be  well  warned 
That  Samsons  perish,  too! 


Is  London!” 


His  monument 


408 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


“True,”  quoth  Dekker,  “and  he  deserves 
Well  of  the  Mermaid  Inn  for  one  good  law, 

Rightly  enforced.  He  pilloried  that  rogue 
Will  Horold,  who  in  Whittington’s  third  year 
Of  office,  as  Lord  Mayor,  placed  certain  gums 
And  spices  in  great  casks,  and  filled  them  up 
With  feeble  Spanish  wine,  to  have  the  taste 
And  smell  of  Romeney, — Malmsey!” 

“Honest  wine, 

Indeed,”  replied  the  Clerk,  “concerns  the  State, 

That  solemn  structure  touched  with  light  from  heaven, 
Which  he,  our  merchant,  helped  to  build  on  earth. 

And,  while  he  laboured  for  it,  all  things  else 
Were  added  unto  him,  until  the  bells 
More  than  fulfilled  their  prophecy. 

One  great  eve, 

Fair  Alice,  leaning  from  her  casement,  saw 
Another  Watch,  and  mightier  than  the  first, 

Billowing  past  the  newly  painted  doors 
Of  Whittington  Palace — so  men  called  his  house 
In  Hart  Street,  fifteen  yards  from  old  Mark  Lane,' — 

A thousand  burganets  and  halberdiers, 

A thousand  archers  in  their  white  silk  coats, 

A thousand  mounted  men  in  ringing  mail, 

A thousand  sworded  henchmen;  then,  his  Guilds 
Advancing,  on  their  splendid  bannerols 
The  Virgin,  glorious  in  gold;  and  then, 

Flos  Mercatorum , on  his  great  stirring  steed 
Whittington!  On  that  night  he  made  a feast 
For  London  and  the  King.  His  feasting  hall 
Gleamed  like  the  magic  cave  that  Prester  John 
Wrought  out  of  one  huge  opal.  East  and  West 
Lavished  their  wealth  on  that  great  Citizen 
Who,  when  the  King  from  Agincourt  returned 
Victorious,  but  with  empty  coffers,  lent 
Three  times  the  ransom  of  an  Emperor  ' 

To  fill  them — on  the  royal  bond,  and  said 
When  the  King  questioned  him  of  how  and  whence, 

‘I  am  the  steward  of  your  City,  sire! 

There  is  a sea,  and  who  shall  drain  it  dry?’ 


FLOS  MERCATORUM 


409 


Over  the  roasted  swans  and  peacock  pies, 

The  minstrels  in  the  great  black  gallery  tuned 
All  hearts  to  mirth,  until  it  seemed  their  cups 
Were  brimmed  with  dawn  and  sunset,  and  they  drank 
The  wine  of  gods.  Lord  of  a hundred  ships, 

Under  the  feet  of  England,  Whittington  flung 
The  purple  of  the  seas.  And  when  the  Queen, 

Catharine,  wondered  at  the  costly  woods 

That  burned  upon  his  hearth,  the  Marchaunt  rose, 

He  drew  the  great  sealed  parchments  from  his  breast, 

The  bonds  the  King  had  given  him  on  his  loans, 

Loans  that  might  drain  the  Mediterranean  dry. 

‘They  call  us  hucksters,  madam,  we  that  love 
Our  City/  and,  into  the  red-hot  heart  of  the  fire, 

He  tossed  the  bonds  of  sixty  thousand  pounds. 

‘The  fire  burns  low/  said  Richard  Whittington. 

Then,  overhead,  the  minstrels  plucked  their  strings; 

And,  over  the  clash  of  wine-cups,  rose  a song 
That  made  the  old  timbers  of  their  feasting-hall 
Shake,  as  a galleon  shakes  in  a gale  of  wind, 

When  she  rolls  glorying  through  the  Ocean-sea : — 

Marchaunt  Adventurers,  0,  what  shall  it  profit  you 

Thus  to  seek  your  kingdom  in  the  dream-destroying  sun? 

Ask  us  why  the  hawthorn  brightens  on  the  sky-line: 

Even  so  our  sails  break  out  when  Spring  is  well  begun! 

Flos  Mercatorum!  Blossom  wide,  ye  sail  of  Englande, 

Hasten  ye  the  kingdom,  now  the  bitter  days  are  done! 

Ay,  for  we  be  members,  one  of  another, 

‘Each  for  all  and  all  for  each/  quoth  Richard  Whittington! 

Chorus: — Marchaunt  Adventurers, 

Marchaunt  Adventurers, 

Marchaunt  Adventurers,  the  Spring  is  well  begun ! 

Break,  break  out  on  every  sea,  O,  fair  white  sails  of  Englande! 
‘Each  for  all,  and  all  for  each/  quoth  Richard  Whittington. 

Marchaunt  Adventurers,  O what  'ull  ye  bring  home  again? 
Woonders  and  works  and  the  thunder  of  the  sea! 

WTiom  will  ye  traffic  with?  The  King  of  the  sunset! — 

What  shall  be  your  pilot,  then? — A wind  from  Galilee! 


410 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


• — Nay,  but  ye  be  marchaunts,  will  ye  come  back  empty- 
handed? — 

Ay,  we  be  marchaunts,  though  our  gain  we  ne'er  shall  see! 
Cast  we  now  our  bread  upon  the  waste  wild  waters; 

After  many  days  it  shall  return  with  usury. 

Chorus: — Marchaunt  Adventurers, 

Marchaunt  Adventurers, 

What  shall  be  your  profit  in  the  mighty  days  to  be? 
Englande!  Englande!  Englande!  Englande! 

Glory  eveiiasting  and  the  lordship  of  the  sea. 

What  need  to  tell  you,  sirs,  how  Whittington 
Remembered?  Night  and  morning,  as  he  knelt 
In  those  old  days,  O,  like  two  children  still, 
Whittington  and  his  Alice  bowed  their  heads 
Together,  praying. 

From  such  simple  hearts, 

0 never  doubt  it,  though  the  whole  world  doubt 
The  God  that  made  it,  came  the  steadfast  strength 
Of  England,  all  that  once  was  her  strong  soul, 

The  soul  that  laughed  and  shook  away  defeat 
As  her  strong  cliffs  hurl  back  the  streaming  seas. 

Sirs,  in  his  old  age  Whittington  returned, 

And  stood  with  Alice,  by  the  silent  tomb 
In  little  Pauntley  church. 

There,  to  his  Arms, 

The  Gules  and  Azure,  and  the  Lion's  Head 
So  proudly  blazoned  on  the  painted  panes; 

(0,  sirs,  the  simple  wistfulness  of  it 

Might  move  hard  hearts  to  laughter,  but  I think 

Tears  tremble  through  it,  for  the  Mermaid  Inn) 

He  added  his  new  crest,  the  hard-won  sign 
And  lowly  prize  of  his  own  industry, 

The  Honey-bee.  And,  far  away,  the  bells 
Peal  softly  from  the  pure  white  City  of  God: — 

JJt  fragrans  nardus 
Fama  fuit  iste  Ricardus . 

With  folded  hands  he  waits  the  Judgment  now. 
Slowly  our  dark  bells  toll  across  the  world, 


RALEIGH 


411 


For  him  who  waits  the  reckoning,  his  accompt 
Secure,  his  conscience  clear,  his  ledger  spread 
A Liber  Albus  flooded  with  pure  light. 

Flos  Mercatorum, 

Fundator  presbyter  or  um,  . . . 

Slowly  the  dark  bells  toll  for  him  who  asks 
No  more  of  men,  but  that  they  may  sometimes 
Pray  for  the  souls  of  Richard  Whittington, 

Alice,  his  wife,  and  (as  themselves  of  old 

Had  prayed)  the  father  and  mother  of  each  of  them. 

Slowly  the  great  notes  fall  and  float  away: — 

Omnibus  exemplum 
Barathrum  vincendo  morosum 
Condidit  hoc  templum  . . . 

Pauperibus  pater 

Finiit  ipse  dies 

Sis  sibi  Christe  quies.  Amen.)f 


IX 

RALEIGH 

Ben  was  our  only  guest  that  day.  His  tribe 
Had  flown  to  their  new  shrine — the^Apollo  Room, 
To  which,  though  they  enscrolled  his  golden  verse 
Above  their  doors  like  some  great-fruited  vine, 
Ben  still  preferred  our  Mermaid , and  to  smoke 
Alone  in  his  old  nook;  perhaps  to  hear 
The  voices  of  the  dead, 

The  voices  of  his  old  companions, 

Hovering  near  him, — Will  and  Kit  and  Rob. 

“Our  Ocean-shepherd  from  the  Main-deep  sea, 
Raleigh,”  he  muttered,  as  I brimmed  his  cup, 
“Last  of  the  men  that  broke  the  fleets  of  Spain, 
’Twas  not  enough  to  cage  him,  sixteen  years, 
Rotting  his  heart  out  in  the  Bloody  Tower, 


412 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


But  they  must  fling  him  forth  in  his  old  age 
To  hunt  for  El  Dorado.  Then,  mine  host, 

Because  his  poor  old  ship  The  Destiny 
Smashes  the  Spaniard,  but  comes  tottering  home 
Without  the  Spanish  gold,  our  gracious  king, 

To  please  a catamite, 

Sends  the  old  lion  back  to  the  Tower  again. 

The  friends  of  Spain  will  send  him  to  the  block 
This  time.  That  male  Salome,  Buckingham, 

Is  dancing  for  his  head.  Raleigh  is  doomed.” 

A shadow  stood  in  the  doorway.  We  looked  up; 

And  there,  but  0,  how  changed,  how  worn  and  grey, 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  like  a hunted  thing, 

Stared  at  us. 

“Ben,”  he  said,  and  glanced  behind  him. 
Ben  took  a step  towards  him. 

“0,  my  God, 

Ben,”  whispered  the  old  man  in  a husky  voice, 

Half  timorous  and  half  cunning,  so  unlike 
His  old  heroic  self  that  one  might  weep 
To  hear  it,  “Ben,  I have  given  them  all  the  slip! 

I may  be  followed.  Can  you  hide  me  here 
Till  it  grows  dark?” 

Ben  drew  him  quickly  in,  and  motioned  me 
To  lock  the  door.  “Till  it  grows  dark,”  he  cried, 

“My  God,  that  you  should  ask  it!” 

“Do  not  think, 

Do  not  believe  that  I am  quite  disgraced,” 

The  old  man  faltered,  “for  they’ll  say  it,  Ben; 

And  when  my  boy  grows  up,  they’ll  tell  him,  too, 

His  father  was  a coward.  I do  cling 
To  life  for  many  reasons,  not  from  fear 
Of  death.  No,  Ben,  I can  disdain  that  still; 

But — there’s  my  boy!” 

Then  all  his  face  went  blind. 

He  dropt  upon  Ben’s  shoulder  and  sobbed  outright, 
“They  are  trying  to  break  my  pride,  to  break  my  pride!” 
The  window  darkened,  and  I saw  a face 
Blurring  the  panes.  Ben  gripped  the  old  man’s  arm, 

And  led  him  gently  to  a room  within, 

Out  of  the  way  of  guests. 


RALEIGH 


413 


“Your  pride,”  he  said, 
“That  is  the  pride  of  England!” 

At  that  name — 

England ! — 

As  at  a signal-gun,  heard  in  the  night 

Far  out  at  sea,  the  weather  and  world-worn  man, 

That  once  was  Raleigh,  lifted  up  his  head. 

Old  age  and  weakness,  weariness  and  fear 
Fell  from  him  like  a cloak.  He  stood  erect. 

His  eager  eyes,  full  of  great  sea-washed  dawns, 
Burned  for  a moment  with  immortal  youth, 

While  tears  blurred  mine  to  see  him. 

“You  do  think 

That  England  will  remember?  You  do  think  it?” 

He  asked  with  a great  light  upon  his  face. 

Ben  bowed  his  head  in  silence. 


“I  have  wronged 

My  cause  by  this,”  said  Raleigh.  “Well  they  know  it 
Who  left  this  way  for  me.  I have  flung  myself 
Like  a blind  moth  into  this  deadly  light 
Of  freedom.  Now,  at  the  eleventh  hour, 

Is  it  too  late?  I might  return  and — n 

“No! 

Not  now!”  Ben  interrupted.  “I’d  have  said 
Laugh  at  the  headsman  sixteen  years  ago, 

When  England  was  awake.  She  will  awake 
Again.  But  now,  while  our  most  gracious  king, 

Who  hates  tobacco,  dedicates  his  prayers 
To  Buckingham — 

This  is  no  land  for  men  that,  under  God, 

Shattered  the  Fleet  Invincible.” 

A knock 

Startled  us,  at  the  outer  door.  “My  friend 
Stukeley,”  said  Raleigh,  “if  I know  his  hand. 

He  has  a ketch  will  carry  me  to  France, 

Waiting  at  Tilbury.” 

I let  him  in, — 

A lean  and  stealthy  fellow,  Sir  Lewis  Stukeley, — 

I liked  him  little.  He  thought  much  of  his  health, 


414 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


More  of  his  money  bags,  and  most  of  all 
On  how  to  run  with  all  men  all  at  once 
For  his  own  profit.  At  the  Mermaid  Inn 
Men  disagreed  in  friendship  and  in  truth; 

But  he  agreed  with  all  men,  and  his  life 

Was  one  soft  quag  of  falsehood.  Fugitives 

Must  use  false  keys,  I thought;  and  there  was  hope 

For  Raleigh  if  such  a man  would  walk  one  mile 

To  serve  him  now.  Yet  my  throat  moved  to  see  him 

Usurping,  with  one  hand  on  Raleigh’s  arm, 

A kind  of  ownership.  “Lend  me  ten  pounds ,” 

Were  the  first  words  he  breathed  in  the  old  man’s  ear, 
And  Raleigh  slipped  his  purse  into  his  hand. 


Just  over  Bread  Street  hung  the  bruised  white  moon 
When  they  crept  out.  Sir  Lewis  Stukeley’s  watch-dog, 

A derelict  bo’sun,  with  a mulberry  face, 

Met  them  outside.  “The  coast  quite  clear,  eh,  Hart?” 
Said  Stukeley.  “Ah,  that’s  good.  Lead  on,  then,  quick. 
And  there,  framed  in  the  cruddle  of  moonlit  clouds 
That  ended  the  steep  street,  dark  on  its  light, 

And  standing  on  those  glistening  cobblestones 
Just  where  they  turned  to  silver,  Raleigh  looked  back 
Before  he  turned  the  corner.  He  stood  there. 

A figure  like  foot-feathered  Mercury, 

Tall,  straight  and  splendid,  waving  his  plumed  hat 
To  Ben,  and  taking  his  last  look,  I felt, 

Upon  our  Mermaid  Tavern . As  he  paused, 

His  long  fantastic  shadow  swayed  and  swept 
Against  our  feet.  Then,  like  a shadow,  he  passed. 


“It  is  not  right,”  said  Ben,  “it  is  not  right. 

Why  did  they  give  the  old  man  so  much  grace? 
Witness  and  evidence  are  what  they  lack. 

Would  you  trust  Stukeley — not  to  draw  him  out? 
Raleigh  was  always  rash.  A phrase  or  two 
Will  turn  their  murderous  axe  into  a sword 
Of  righteousness — 


RALEIGH 


415 


Why,  come  to  think  of  it, 
Blackfriar’s  Wharf,  last  night,  I landed  there, 

And — no,  by  God! — Raleigh  is  not  himself, 

The  tide  will  never  serve  beyond  Gravesend. 

It  is  a trap!  Come  on!  We’ll  follow  them! 

Quick!  To  the  river  side!” — 

We  reached  the  wharf 

Only  to  see  their  wherry,  a small  black  cloud 
Dwindling  far  down  that  running  silver  road. 

Ben  touched  my  arm. 

“Look  there,”  he  said,  pointing  up-stream. 

The  moon 

Glanced  on  a cluster  of  pikes,  like  silver  thorns, 

Three  hundred  yards  away,  a little  troop 
Of  weaponed  men,  embarking  hurriedly. 

Their  great  black  wherry  clumsily  swung  about, 

Then,  with  twelve  oars  for  legs,  came  striding  down, 
An  armoured  beetle  on  the  glittering  trail 
Of  some  small  victim. 

Just  below  our  wharf 
A little  dinghy  waddled. 

Ben  cut  the  painter,  and  without  one  word 
Drew  her  up  crackling  thro’  the  lapping  water, 
Motioned  me  to  the  tiller,  thrust  her  off, 

And,  pulling  with  one  oar,  backing  with  the  other, 
Swirled  her  round  and  down,  hard  on  the  track 
Of  Raleigh.  Ben  was  an  old  man  now  but  tough, 

0 tough  as  a buccaneer.  We  distanced  them. 

His  oar  blades  drove  the  silver  boiling  back. 

By  Broken  Wharf  the  beetle  was  a speck. 

It  dwindled  by  Queen  Hythe  and  the  Three  Cranes. 

By  Bellyn’s  Gate  we  had  left  it,  out  of  sight. 

By  Custom  House  and  Galley  Keye  we  shot 
Thro’  silver  all  the  way,  without  one  glimpse 
Of  Raleigh.  Then  a dreadful  shadow  fell 
And  over  us  the  Tower  of  London  rose 
Like  ebony;  and,  on  the  glittering  reach 
Beyond  it,  I could  see  the  small  black  cloud 
That  carried  the  great  old  seaman  slowly  down 
Between  the  dark  shores  whence  in  happier  years 
The  throng  had  cheered  his  golden  galleons  out, 


416 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


And  watched  his  proud  sails  filling  for  Cathay. 

There,  as  through  lead,  we  dragged  by  Traitor’s  Gate, 
There,  in  the  darkness,  under  the  Bloody  Towner, 

There,  on  the  very  verge  of  victory, 

Ben  gasped  and  dropped  his  oars. 

4 * Take  one  and  row,”  he  said,  “my  arms  are  numbed. 
We’ll  overtake  him  yet!”  I clambered  past  him, 

And  took  the  bow  oar. 

Once,  as  the  pace  flagged, 

Over  his  shoulder  he  turned  his  great  scarred  face 
And  snarled,  with  a trickle  of  blood  on  his  coarse  lips, 
“Hard!”— 

And  blood  and  fire  ran  through  my  veins  again, 

For  half  a minute  more. 

Yet  we  fell  back. 

Our  course  w~as  crooked  now.  And  suddenly 
A grim  black  speck  began  to  grow  behind  us, 

Grow  like  the  threat  of  death  upon  old  age. 

Then,  thickening,  blackening,  sharpening,  foaming,  swept 
Up  the  bright  line  of  bubbles  in  our  wake, 

That  armoured  wherry,  with  its  long  twelve  oars 
All  well  together  now. 

“Too  late,”  gasped  Ben, 

His  ash-grey  face  uplifted  to  the  moon, 

One  quivering  hand  upon  the  thwart  behind  him, 

A moment.  Then  he  bowed  over  his  knees 
Coughing.  “ But  we’ll  delay  them.  We’ll  be  drunk, 

And  hold  the  catch-polls  up!” 

We  drifted  down 
Before  them,  broadside  on.  They  sheered  aside. 

Then,  feigning  a clumsy  stroke,  Ben  drove  our  craft 
As  they  drew  level,  right  in  among  their  blades. 

There  was  a shout,  an  oath.  They  thrust  us  off; 

And  then  we  swung  our  nose  against  their  bows 
And  pulled  them  round  with  every  well-meant  stroke. 

A full  half  minute,  ere  they  won  quite  free, 

Cursing  us  for  a pair  of  drunken  fools. 

We  drifted  down  behind  them. 

“There’s  no  doubt,” 

Said  Ben,  “the  headsman  waits  behind  all  this 


RALEIGH 


417 


For  Raleigh.  This  is  a play  to  cheat  the  soul 
Of  England,  teach  the  people  to  applaud 
The  red  fifth  act.” 

Without  another  word  we  drifted  down 
For  centuries  it  seemed,  until  we  came 
To  Greenwich. 

Then  up  the  long  white  burnished  reach  there  crept 
Like  little  sooty  clouds  the  two  black  boats 
To  meet  us. 

“He  is  in  the  trap,”  said  Ben, 

“And  does  not  know  it  yet.  See,  where  he  sits 
By  Stukeley  as  by  a friend.” 

Long  after  this, 

We  heard  how  Raleigh,  simply  as  a child, 

Seeing  the  tide  would  never  serve  him  now, 

And  they  must  turn,  had  taken  from  his  neck 
Some  trinkets  that  he  wore.  “Keep  them,”  he  said 
To  Stukeley,  “in  remembrance  of  this  night.” 

He  had  no  doubts  of  Stukeley  when  he  saw 
The  wherry  close  beside  them.  He  but  wrapped 
His  cloak  a little  closer  round  his  face. 

Our  boat  rocked  in  their  wash  when  Stukeley  dropped 
The  mask.  We  saw  him  give  the  sign,  and  heard 
His  high-pitched  quavering  voice — “in  the  king’s  name!” 
Raleigh  rose  to  his  feet.  “I  am  under  arrest?” 

He  said,  like  a dazed  man. 

And  Stukeley  laughed. 

Then,  as  he  bore  himself  to  the  grim  end, 

All  doubt  being  over,  the  old  sea-king  stood 
Among  those  glittering  points,  a king  indeed. 

The  black  boats  rocked.  We  heard  his  level  voice, 

“ Sir  Lewis , these  actions  never  will  turn  out 
To  your  good  credit”  Across  the  moonlit  Thames 
It  rang  contemptuously,  cold  as  cold  steel, 

And  passionless  as  the  judgment  that  ends  all. 


Some  three  months  later,  Raleigh’s  widow  came 
To  lodge  a se’nnight  at  the  Mermaid  Inn. 

His  house  in  Bread  Street  was  no  more  her  own, 
27 


418 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


But  in  the  hands  of  Stukeley,  who  had  reaped 
A pretty  harvest.  . . 

She  kept  close  to  her  room,  and  that  same  night, 

Being  ill  and  with  some  fever,  sent  her  maid 
To  fetch  the  apothecary  from  Friday  Street, 

Old  “Galen”  as  the  Mermaid  christened  him. 

At  that  same  moment,  as  the  maid  went  out, 

Stukeley  came  in.  He  met  her  at  the  door; 

And,  chucking  her  under  the  chin,  gave  her  a letter. 

“Take  this  up  to  your  mistress.  It  concerns 
Her  property,”  he  said.  “Say  that  I wait, 

And  would  be  glad  to  speak  with  her.” 

The  wench 

Looked  pertly  in  his  face,  and  tripped  upstairs. 

I scarce  could  trust  my  hands. 

“Sir  Lewis,”  I said, 

“This  is  no  time  to  trouble  her.  She  is  ill.” 

“Let  her  decide,”  he  answered,  with  a sneer. 

Before  I found  another  word  to  say 

The  maid  tripped  down  again.  I scarce  believed 

My  senses,  when  she  beckoned  him  up  the  stair. 

Shaking  from  head  to  foot,  I blocked  the  way. 

“Property!”  Could  the  crux  of  mine  and  thine 
Bring  widow  and  murderer  into  one  small  room? 

“Sir  Lewis,”  I said,  “she  is  ill.  It  is  not  right! 

She  never  would  consent.” 

He  sneered  again, 

“You  are  her  doctor?  Out  of  the  way,  old  fool! 

She  has  decided!” 

“Go,”  I said  to  the  maid, 

“Fetch  the  apothecary.  Let  it  rest 
With  him!” 

She  tossed  her  head.  Her  quick  eyes  glanced, 
Showing  the  white,  like  the  eyes  of  a vicious  mare. 

She  laughed  at  Stukeley,  loitered,  then  obeyed. 


And  so  we  waited,  till  the  wench  returned, 
With  Galen  at  her  heels.  His  wholesome  face, 
Russet  and  wrinkled  like  an  apple,  peered 
Shrewdly  at  Stukeley,  twinkled  once  at  me, 


RALEIGH 


419 


And  passed  in  silence,  leaving  a whiff  of  herbs 
Behind  him  on  the  stair. 

Five  minutes  later, 

To  my  amazement,  that  same  wholesome  face 
Leaned  from  the  lighted  door  above,  and  called 
“Sir  Lewis  Stukeley!" 

Sir  Judas  hastened  up. 

The  apothecary  followed  him  within. 

The  door  shut.  I was  left  there  in  the  dark 
Bewildered;  for  my  heart  was  hot  with  thoughts 
Of  those  last  months.  Our  Summer's  Nightingale, 
Our  Ocean-Shepherd  from  the  Main-deep  Sea, 

The  Founder  of  our  Mermaid  Fellowship, 

Was  this  his  guerdon — at  the  Mermaid  Inn? 

Was  this  that  maid-of-honour  whose  romance 
With  Raleigh,  once,  had  been  a kingdom's  talk? 
Could  Bess  Throckmorton  slight  his  memory  thus? 
“It  is  not  right,"  I said,  “it  is  not  right. 

She  wrongs  him  deeply." 

I leaned  against  the  porch 
Staring  into  the  night.  A ghostly  ray 
Above  me,  from  her  window,  bridged  the  street, 

And  rested  on  the  goldsmith's  painted  sign 
Opposite. 

I could  hear  the  muffled  voice 
Of  Stukeley  overhead,  persuasive,  bland; 

And  then,  her  own,  cooing,  soft  as  a dove 
Calling  her  mate  from  Eden  cedar-boughs, 

Flowed  on  and  on;  and  then — all  my  flesh  crept 
At  something  worse  than  either,  a long  space 
Of  silence  that  stretched  threatening  and  cold, 

Cold  as  a dagger-point  pricking  the  skin 
Over  my  heart. 

Then  came  a stifled  cry, 

A crashing  door,  a footstep  on  the  stair 
Blundering  like  a drunkard's,  heavily  down; 

And  with  his  gasping  face  one  tragic  mask 
Of  horror, — may  God  help  me  to  forget 
Some  day  the  frozen  awful  eyes  of  one 
Who,  fearing  neither  hell  nor  heaven,  has  met 
That  ultimate  weapon  of  the  gods,  the  face 


420 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


And  serpent-tresses  that  turn  flesh  to  stone — 
Stukeley  stumbled,  groping  his  way  out, 
Blindly,  past  me,  into  the  sheltering  night. 


It  was  the  last  night  of  another  year 
Before  I understood  what  punishment 
Had  overtaken  Stukeley.  Ben,  and  Brome — 
Ben’s  ancient  servant,  but  turned  poet  now — 

Sat  by  the  fire  with  the  old  apothecary 
To  see  the  New  Year  in. 

The  starry  night 

Had  drawn  me  to  the  door.  Could  it  be  true 
That  our  poor  earth  no  longer  was  the  hub 
Of  those  white  wheeling  orbs?  I scarce  believed 
The  strange  new  dreams;  but  I had  seen  the  veils 
Rent  from  vast  oceans  and  huge  continents, 

Till  what  was  once  our  comfortable  fire, 

Our  cosy  tavern,  and  our  earthly  home 
With  heaven  beyond  the  next  turn  in  the  road, 

All  the  resplendent  fabric  of  our  world 
Shrank  to  a glow-worm,  lighting  up  one  leaf 
In  one  small  forest,  in  one  little  land, 

Among  those  wild  infinitudes  of  God. 

A tattered  wastrel  wandered  down  the  street, 

Clad  in  a seaman’s  jersey,  staring  hard 
At  every  sign.  Beneath  our  own,  the  light 
Fell  on  his  red  carbuncled  face.  I knew  him — 
The  bo’sun,  Hart. 

He  pointed  to  our  sign 

And  leered  at  me.  “ That’s  her,”  he  said,  “no  do 
The  sea-witch  with  the  shiny  mackerel  tail 
Swishing  in  wine.  That’s  what  Sir  Lewis  meant. 
He  called  it  blood.  Blood  is  his  craze,  you  see. 
This  is  the  Mermaid  Tavern,  sir,  no  doubt?” 

I nodded.  “Ah,  I thought  as  much,”  he  said. 
“Well — happen  this  is  worth  a cup  of  ale.” 

He  thrust  his  hand  under  his  jersey  and  lugged 

A greasy  letter  out.  It  was  inscribed 

The  Apothecary  at  the  Mermaid  Tavern. 


RALEIGH 


421 


I led  him  in.  “I  knew  it,  sir,”  he  said, 

While  Galen  broke  the  seal.  “Soon  as  I saw 
That  sweet  young  naked  wench  curling  her  tail 
In  those  red  waves. — The  old  man  called  it  blood. 

Blood  is  his  craze,  you  see. — But  you  can  tell 
'Tis  wine,  sir,  by  the  foam.  Malmsey,  no  doubt. 

And  that  sweet  wench  to  make  you  smack  your  lips 
Like  oysters,  with  her  slippery  tail  and  all! 

Why,  sir,  no  doubt,  this  was  the  Mermaid  Inn.” 

“But  this,”  said  Galen,  lifting  his  grave  face 
To  Ben,  “this  letter  is  from  all  that's  left 
Of  Stukeley.  The  good  host,  there,  thinks  I wronged 
Your  Ocean-shepherd's  memory.  From  this  letter, 

I think  I helped  to  avenge  him.  Do  not  wrong 
His  widow,  even  in  thought.  She  loved  him  dearly. 
You  know  she  keeps  his  poor  grey  severed  head 
Embalmed;  and  so  will  keep  it  till  she  dies; 

Weeps  over  it  alone.  I have  heard  such  things 
In  wild  Italian  tales.  But  this  was  true. 

Had  I refused  to  let  her  speak  with  Stukeley 
I feared  she  would  go  mad.  This  letter  proves 
That  I — and  she  perhaps — were  instruments, 

Of  some  more  terrible  chirurgery 
Than  either  knew.” 

“All,  when  I saw  your  sign,” 

The  bo'sun  interjected,  “I'd  no  doubt 
That  letter  was  well  worth  a cup  of  ale.” 

“Go — paint  your  bows  with  hell-fire  somewhere  else, 
Not  at  this  inn,”  said  Ben,  tossing  the  rogue 
A good  French  crowm.  “Pickle  yourself  in  hell.” 

And  Hart  lurched  out  into  the  night  again, 

Muttering  “Thank  you,  sirs.  'Twas  worth  all  that. 

No  doubt  at  all.” 

“There  are  some  men,”  said  Galenf 
Spreading  the  letter  out  on  his  plump  knees, 

“Will  heap  up  wrong  on  wrong;  and,  at  the  last, 
Wonder  because  the  world  will  not  forget 
Just  when  it  suits  them,  cancel  all  they  owe, 

And,  like  a mother,  hold  its  arms  out  wide 
At  their  first  cry.  And,  sirs,  I do  believe 


422 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


That  Stukeley,  on  that  night,  had  some  such  wish 
To  reconcile  himself.  What  else  had  passed 
Between  the  widow  and  himself  I know  not; 

But  she  had  lured  him  on  until  he  thought 
That  words  and  smiles,  perhaps  a tear  or  two, 

Might  make  the  widow  take  the  murderer’s  hand 
In  friendship,  since  it  might  advantage  both. 

Indeed,  he  came  prepared  for  even  more. 

Villains  are  always  fools.  A wicked  act, 

What  is  it  but  a false  move  in  the  game, 

A blind  man’s  blunder,  a deaf  man’s  reply, 

The  wrong  drug  taken  in  the  dead  of  night? 

I always  pity  villains. 

I mistook 

The  avenger  for  the  victim.  There  she  lay 
Panting,  that  night,  her  eyes  like  summer  stars 
Her  pale  gold  hair  upon  the  pillows  tossed 
Dishevelled,  while  the  fever  in  her  face 
Brought  back  the  lost  wdld  roses  of  her  youth 
For  half  an  hour.  Against  a breast  as  pure 
And  smooth  as  any  maid’s,  her  soft  arms  pressed 
A bundle  wrapped  in  a white  embroidered  cloth. 

She  crooned  over  it  as  a mother  croons 
Over  her  suckling  child.  I stood  beside  her. 

— That  was  her  wish,  and  mine,  while  Stukeley  stayed.- 
And,  over  against  me,  on  the  other  side, 

Stood  Stukeley,  gnawing  his  nether  lip  to  find 
She  could  not,  or  she  would  not,  speak  one  word 
In  answer  to  his  letter. 

‘Lady  Raleigh, 

You  wrong  me,  and  you  wrong  yourself,’  he  cried, 

‘ To  play  like  a green  girl  when  great  affairs 
Are  laid  before  you.  Let  me  speak  with  you 
Alone.’ 

‘But  I am  all  alone,’  she  said, 

‘Far  more  alone  than  1 have  ever  been 
In  all  my  life  before.  This  is  my  doctor. 

He  must  not  leave  me.’ 

Then  she  lured  him  on, 
Played  on  his  brain  as  a musician  plays 
Upon  the  lute. 


RALEIGH 


423 


'Forgive  me,  dear  Sir  Lewis, 

If  I am  grown  too  gay  for  widowhood. 

But  I have  pondered  for  a long,  long  time 
On  all  these  matters.  I know’  the  world  was  right; 
And  Spain  was  right,  Sir  Lewis.  Yes,  and  you, 
You  too,  were  right;  and  my  poor  husband  wrong. 
You  see  I knew  his  mind  so  very  w’ell. 

I knew  his  every  gesture,  every  smile. 

I lived  with  him.  I think  I died  with  him. 

It  is  a strange  thing,  marriage.  For  my  soul 
(As  if  myself  were  present  in  this  flesh) 

Beside  him,  slept  in  his  grey  prison-cell 
On  that  last  dreadful  dawn.  I heard  the  throng* 
Murmuring  round  the  scaffold  far  away; 

And,  with  the  smell  of  sawdust  in  my  nostrils, 

I woke,  bewildered  as  himself,  to  see 
That  tall  black-cassocked  figure  by  his  bed. 

I heard  the  words  that  made  him  understand : 

The  Body  of  owe  Lord — take  and  eat  this! 

I rolled  the  small  sour  flakes  beneath  my  tongue 
With  him.  I caught,  with  him,  the  gleam  of  tears, 
Far  off,  on  some  strange  face  of  sickly  dread. 

The  Blood — and  the  cold  cup  was  in  my  hand, 

Cold  as  an  axe-heft  washed  with  waterish  red. 

I heard  his  last  poor  cry  to  wife  and  child. — 

Could  any  that  heard  forget  it? — My  true  God , 
Hold  you  both  in  His  arms,  both  in  His  arms . 

And  then — that  last  poor  wish,  a thing  to  raise 
A smile  in  some.  I have  smiled  at  it  myself 
A thousand  times. 

"Give  me  my  pipe,”  he  said, 
"My  old  Winchester  clay , with  the  long  stem, 

And  half  an  hour  alone . The  crowd  can  wait. 

They  have  not  waited  half  so  long  as  I.” 

And  then,  O then,  I know  what  soft  blue  clouds, 
What  wavering  rings,  fragrant  ascending  wreaths 
Melted  his  prison  walls  to  a summer  haze, 

Through  which  I think  he  saw  the  little  port 
Of  Budleigh  Salterton,  like  a sea-bird's  nest 
Among  the  Devon  cliffs — the  tarry  quay 
Whence  in  his  boyhood  he  had  flung  a line 


424 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


For  bass  or  whiting-pollock.  I remembered 
(Had  he  not  told  me,  on  some  summer  night, 

His  arm  about  my  neck,  kissing  my  hair) 

He  used  to  sit  there,  gazing  out  to  sea; 

Fish,  and  for  what?  Not  all  for  what  he  caught 
And  handled;  but  for  rainbow-coloured  things, 
The  wTater-dropS  that  jewelled  his  thin  line, 
Flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the  sunset-clouds; 

While  the  green  water,  gurgling  through  the  piles, 
Heaving  and  sinking,  helped  him  to  believe 
The  fast-bound  quay  a galleon  plunging  out 
Superbly  for  Cathay.  There  would  he  sit 
Listening,  a radiant  boy,  child  of  the  sea, 
Listening  to  some  old  seaman’s  glowing  tales, 

His  grey  eyes  rich  with  pictures — 

Then  he  saw, 

And  I with  him,  that  gathering  in  the  West, 

To  break  the  Fleet  Invincible.  O,  I heard 
The  trumpets  and  the  neighings  and  the  drums. 

I watched  the  beacons  on  a hundred  hills, 

I drank  that  wine  of  battle  from  his  cup, 

And  gloried  in  it,  lying  against  his  heart. 

I sailed  with  him  and  saw  the  unknown  worlds! 
The  slender  ivory  towers  of  old  Cathay 
Rose  for  us  over  lilac-coloured  seas 
That  crumbled  a sky-blue  foam  on  long  shores 
Of  shining  sand,  shores  of  so  clear  a glass 
They  drew  the  sunset-clouds  into  their  bosom 
And  hung  that  City  of  Vision  in  mid-air 
Girdling  it  round,  as  with  a moat  of  sky, 
Hopelessly  beautiful.  0,  yet  I heard, 

Heard  from  his  blazoned  poops  the  trumpeters 
Blowing  proud  calls,  while  overhead  the  flag 
Of  England  floated  from  white  towers  of  sail — 
And  yet,  and  yet,  I knew  that  he  was  wrong, 

And  soon  he  knew  it,  too. 

I saw  the  cloud 

Of  doubt  assail  him,  in  the  Bloody  Tower, 

When,  being  withheld  from  sailing  the  high  seas 
For  sixteen  years,  he  spread  a prouder  sail, 

Took  up  his  pen,  and,  walled  about  with  stone, 


RALEIGH 


425 


Began  to  write — his  History  of  the  World . 

And  emperors  came  like  Lazarus  from  the  grave 
To  wear  his  purple.  And  the  night  disgorged 
Its  empires,  till,  O,  like  the  swirl  of  dust 
Around  their  marching  legions,  that  dim  cloud 
Of  doubt  closed  round  him.  Was  there  any  man 
So  sure  of  heart  and  brain  as  to  record 
The  simple  truth  of  things  himself  had  seen? 

Then  who  could  plumb  that  night?  The  work  broke  off! 
He  knew  that  he  was  wrong.  I knew  it,  too! 

Once  more  that  stately  structure  of  his  dreams 
Melted  like  mist.  His  eagles  perished  like  clouds. 

Death  wound  a thin  horn  through  the  centuries. 

The  grave  resumed  his  forlorn  emperors. 

His  empires  crumbled  back  to  a little  ash 
Knocked  from  his  pipe. — 

He  dropped  his  pen  in  homage  to  the  truth. 

The  truth?  0,  eloquent  y just  and  mighty  Death! 

Then,  when  he  forged,  out  of  one  golden  thought, 

A key  to  open  his  prison;  when  the  King 

Released  him  for  a tale  of  faerie  gold 

Under  the  tropic  palms;  when  those  grey  walls 

Melted  before  his  passion;  do  you  think 

The  gold  that  lured  the  King  was  quite  the  same 

As  that  which  Raleigh  saw?  You  know  the  song: 

“Say  to  the  King,”  quoth  Raleigh, 

“I  have  a tale  to  tell  him; 

Wealth  beyond  derision, 

Veils  to  lift  from  the  sky, 

Seas  to  sail  for  England, 

And  a little  dream  to  sell  him, 

Gold,  the  gold  of  a vision 
That  angels  cannot  buy.” 

Ah,  no!  For  all  the  beauty  and  the  pride, 

Raleigh  was  wrong;  but  not  so  wrong,  I think, 

As  those  for  whom  his  kingdoms  oversea 
Meant  only  glittering  dust.  The  fight  he  waged 
Was  not  with  them.  They  never  worsted  him. 


426 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


It  was  The  Destiny  that  brought  him  home 
Without  the  Spanish  gold. — 0,  he  was  wrong, 

But  such  a wrong,  in  Gloriana’s  day, 

Was  more  than  right,  was  immortality. 

He  had  just  half  an  hour  to  put  all  this 
Into  his  pipe  and  smoke  it. — 

The  red  fire, 

The  red  heroic  fire  that  filled  his  veins 
When  the  proud  flag  of  England  floated  out 
Its  challenge  to  the  world — all  gone  to  ash? 

What!  Was  the  great  red  wine  that  Drake  had  quaffed 
Vinegar?  He  must  fawn,  haul  down  his  flag, 

And  count  all  nations  nobler  than  his  own, 

Tear  out  the  lions  from  the  painted  shields 
That  hung  his  poop,  for  fear  that  he  offend 
The  pride  of  Spain?  Treason  to  sack  the  ships 
Of  Spain?  The  wounds  of  slaughtered  Englishmen 
Cried  out — there  is  no  law  beyond  the  line! 

Treason  to  sweep  the  seas  with  Francis  Drake? 

Treason  to  fight  for  England? 

If  it  were  so, 

The  times  had  changed  and  quickly.  He  had  been 
A schoolboy  in  the  morning  of  the  world 
Playing  with  wooden  swords  and  winning  crowns 
Of  tinsel;  but  his  comrades  had  outgrown 
Their  morning-game,  and  gathered  round  to  mock 
His  battles  in  the  sunset.  Yet  he  knew 
That  all  his  life  had  passed  in  that  brief  day; 

And  he  was  old,  too  old  to  understand 
The  smile  upon  the  face  of  Buckingham, 

The  smile  on  Cobham’s  face,  at  that  great  word 
England! 

He  knew  the  solid  earth  was  changed 
To  something  less  than  dust  among  the  stars — 

And,  0,  be  sure  he  knew  that  he  was  wrong, 

That  gleams  would  come, 

Gleams  of  a happier  world  for  younger  men, 

That  Commonwealth,  far  off.  This  was  a time 
Of  sadder  things,  destruction  of  the  old 
Before  the  new  was  born.  At  least  he  knew 
It  was  his  own  way  that  had  brought  the  world 


RALEIGH 


427 


Thus  far,  England  thus  far!  How  could  he  change, 
Who  had  loved  England  as  a man  might  love 
His  mistress,  change  from  year  to  fickle  year? 

For  the  new  years  would  change,  even  as  the  old. 

No — he  was  wedded  to  that  old  first  love, 

Crude  flesh  and  blood,  and  coarse  as  meat  and  drink, 
The  woman — England;  no  fine  angel-isle, 

Ruled  by  that  male  Salome — Buckingham! 

Better  the  axe  than  to  live  on  and  wage 
These  new  and  silent  and  more  deadly  wars 
That  play  at  friendship  with  our  enemies. 

Such  times  are  evil.  Not  of  their  own  desire 
They  lead  to  good,  blind  agents  of  that  Hand 
Which  now  had  hewed  him  down,  down  to  his  knees, 
But  in  a prouder  battle  than  men  knew. 


His  pipe  was  out,  the  guard  was  at  the  door. 

Raleigh  was  not  a god.  But,  when  he  climbed 
The  scaffold,  I believe  he  looked  a man. 

And  when  the  axe  fell,  I believe  that  God 
Set  on  his  shoulders  that  immortal  head 
Which  he  desired  on  earth. 

0,  he  was  wrong! 

But  when  that  axe  fell,  not  one  shout  was  raised. 

That  mighty  throng  around  that  crimson  block 
Stood  silent — like  the  hushed  black  cloud  that  holds 
The  thunder.  You  might  hear  the  headsman’s  breath. 
Stillness  like  that  is  dangerous,  being  charged, 
Sometimes,  with  thought,  Sir  Lewis!  England  sleeps! 
What  if,  one  day,  the  Stewart  should  be  called 
To  know  that  England  wakes?  What  if  a shout 
Should  thunder-strike  Whitehall,  and  the  dogs  lift 
Their  heads  along  the  fringes  of  the  crowd 
To  catch  a certain  savour  that  I know, 

The  smell  of  blood  and  sawdust? — 

Ah,  Sir  Lewis, 

’Tis  hard  to  find  one  little  seed  of  right 
Among  so  many  wrongs.  Raleigh  was  wrong, 

And  yet — it  was  because  he  loved  his  country 
Next  to  himself,  Sir  Lewis,  by  your  leave, 


428 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


Hi s country  butchered  him.  You  did  not  know 
That  I was  only  third  in  his  affections? 

The  night  I told  him — we  were  parting  then — 

I had  begged  the  last  disposal  of  his  body, 

Did  he  not  say,  with  O,  so  gentle  a smile, 

“ Thou  hadst  not  always  the  disposal  of  it 
In  life,  dear  Bess.  ’Tis  well  it  should  he  thine 
In  death!'" 


‘The  jest  was  bitter  at  such  an  hour, 
And  somewhat  coarse  in  grain/  Stukeley  replied. 
‘Indeed  I thought  him  kinder/ 

‘Kinder/  she  said, 


Laughing  bitterly. 


Sxukeley  looked  at  her. 

She  whispered  something,  and  his  lewd  old  eyes 
Fastened  upon  her  own.  He  knelt  by  her. 
‘Perhaps/  he  said,  ‘your  woman’s  wit  has  found 
A better  way  to  solve  this  bitter  business/ 

Her  head  moved  on  the  pillow”  with  little  tossings. 
He  touched  her  hand.  It  leapt  quickly  away. 

She  hugged  that  strange  white  bundle  to  her  breast, 
And  writhed  back,  smiling  at  him,  across  the  bed. 


‘Ah,  Bess/  he  whispered  huskily,  pressing  his  lips 
To  that  warm  hollow  where  her  head  had  lain, 

‘ There  is  one  way  to  close  the  long  dispute, 

Keep  the  estates  unbroken  in  your  hands 
And  stop  all  slanderous  tongues,  one  happy  way. 

We  have  some  years  to  live;  and  w”hy  alone?’ 
‘Alone?’  she  sighed.  ‘My  husband  thought  of  that. 
He  wrote  a letter  to  me  long  ago, 

When  he  was  first  condemned.  He  said — he  said — 
Now  let  me  think — what  was  it  that  he  said? — 

I had  it  all  by  heart.  “ Beseech  you , Bess , 

Hide  not  yourself  for  many  days ”,  he  said.’ 

‘True  wisdom  that/  quoth  Stukeley,  ‘for  the  love 
That  seeks  to  chain  the  living  to  the  dead 
Is  but  self-love  at  best!’ 

‘And  yet/  she  said, 

‘ How  his  poor  heart  was  torn  between  two  cares, 
Love  of  himself  and  care  for  me,  as  thus: 


RALEIGH 


Love  God ! Begin  to  repose  yourself  on  Him! 

Therein  you  shall  find  true  and  lasting  riches; 

But  all  the  rest  is  nothing.  When  you  have  tired 
Your  thoughts  on  earthly  things , when  you  have  travelled 
Through  all  the  glittering  pomps  of  this  proud  world 
You  shall  sit  down  by  Sorrow  in  the  end. 

Begin  betimes , and  teach  your  little  son 
To  serve  and  fear  God  also. 

Then  God  will  be  a husband  unto  you , 

And  unto  him  a father;  nor  can  Death 
Bereave  you  any  more.  When  I am  gone, 

No  doubt  you  shall  be  sought  unto  by  many 
For  the  world  thinks  that  I was  very  rich. 

No  greater  misery  can  befall  you,  Bess, 

Than  to  become  a prey,  and,  afterwards, 

To  be  despised l 

' Human  enough/  said  Stukeley, 
'And  yet — self-love,  self-love!’ 

'Ah  no/  quoth  she, 
'You  have  not  heard  the  end:  God  knows,  I speak  it 
Not  to  dissuade  you — not  to  dissuade  you,  mark — 
From  marriage.  That  will  be  the  best  for  you , 

Both  in  respect  of  God  and  of  the  world. 

Was  that  self-love,  Sir  Lewis?  Ah,  not  all. 

And  thus  he  ended : For  his  father’s  sake 
That  chose  and  loved  you  in  his  happiest  times , 
Remember  your  poor  child ! The  Everlasting, 

Infinite,  powerful,  and  inscrutable  God, 

Keep  you  and  yours,  have  mercy  upon  me, 

And  teach  me  to  forgive  my  false  accusers — 

Wrong,  even  in  death,  you  see.  Then — My  true  wife , 
Farewell ! 

Bless  my  poor  boy!  Pray  for  me!  My  true  God, 

Hold  you  both  in  His  arms,  both  in  His  arms! 

I know  that  he  was  wrong.  You  did  not  know, 

Sir  Lewis,  that  he  had  left  me  a little  child. 

Come  closer.  You  shall  see  its  orphaned  face, 

The  sad,  sad  relict  of  a man  that  loved 

His  country — all  that’s  left  to  me.  Come,  look!’ 

She  beckoned  Stukeley  nearer.  He  bent  down 
Curiously.  Her  feverish  fingers  drew 


430 


TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 


The  white  wrap  from  the  bundle  in  her  arms, 

And,  with  a smile  that  would  make  angels  weep, 

She  showed  him,  pressed  against  her  naked  breast, 
Terrible  as  Medusa,  the  grey  flesh 
And  shrivelled  face,  embalmed,  the  thing  that  dropped 
Into  the  headsman’s  basket,  months  agone, — 

The  head  of  Raleigh. 

Half  her  body  lay 

Bare,  while  she  held  that  grey  babe  to  her  heart; 

But  Judas  hid  his  face.  . . . 

•Living/  she  said,  ‘he  was  not  always  mine; 

But — dead — I shall  not  wean  him  ’ — 

Then,  I too 

Covered  my  face — I cannot  tell  you  more. 

There  was  a dreadful  silence  in  that  room, 

Silence  that,  as  I know,  shattered  the  brain 
Of  Stukdey. — When  I dared  to  raise  my  head 
Beneath  that  silent  thunder  of  our  God, 

The  man  had  gone — 

This  is  his  letter,  sirs, 

Written  from  Lundy  Island:  For  God’s  love , 

Tell  them  it  is  a cruel  thing  to  say 
That  I drink  blood . I have  no  secret  sin. 

A thousand  pound  is  not  so  great  a sum; 

And  that  is  all  they  paid  me , every  penny. 

Salt  water , that  is  all  the  drink  1 taste 
On  this  rough  island.  Somebody  has  taught 
The  sea-gulls  how  to  wail  around  my  hut 
All  night , like  lost  souls . And  there  is  a face , 

A dead  man’s  face  that  laughs  in  every  storm , 

And  sleeps  in  every  pool  along  the  coast. 

I thought  it  was  my  own , once.  But  I know 
These  actions  never , never , on  God’s  earth , 

Will  turn  out  to  their  credit,  who  believe 
That  I drink  blood.” 

He  crumpled  up  the  letter 
And  tossed  it  into  the  fire. 

“ Galen, ” said  Ben, 

“I  think  you  are  right — that  one  should  pity  villains/! 


RALEIGH 


431 


The  clock  struck  twelve.  The  bells  began  to  peal. 
We  drank  a cup  of  sack  to  the  New  Year. 

“New  songs,  new  voices,  all  as  fresh  as  may/7 
Said  Ben  to  Brome,  “but  I shall  never  live 
To  hear  them/7 

All  was  not  so  well,  indeed, 

With  Ben,  as  hitherto.  Age  had  come  upon  him. 

He  dragged  one  foot  as  in  paralysis. 

The  critics  bayed  against  the  old  lion,  now, 

And  called  him  arrogant.  “My  brain,77  he  said, 

“ Is  yet  unhurt  although,  set  round  with  pain, 

It  cannot  long  hold  out.77  He  never  stooped, 

Never  once  pandered  to  that  brainless  hour. 

His  coat  was  thread-bare.  Weeks  had  passed  of  late 
Without  his  voice  resounding  in  our  inn. 

“The  statues  are  defiled,  the  gods  dethroned, 

The  Ionian  movement  reigns,  not  the  free  soul. 

And,  as  for  me,  I have  lived  too  long,77  he  said.- 
“Well — I can  weave  the  old  threnodies  anew.77 
And,  filling  his  cup,  he  murmured,  soft  and  low, 

A new  song,  breaking  on  an  ancient  shore: 


i 

Marlowe  is  dead,  and  Greene  is  in  his  grave, 
And  sweet  Will  Shakespeare  long  ago  is  gone! 
Our  Ocean-shepherd  sleeps  beneath  the  wave; 
Robin  is  dead,  and  Marlowe  in  his  grave. 

Why  should  I stay  to  chant  an  idle  stare, 

And  in  my  Mermaid  Tavern  drink  alone? 

For  Kit  iff  dead  and  Greene  is  in  his  grave, 

And  sweet  Will  Shakespeare  long  ago  is  gone. 


ii 

Where  is  the  singer  of  the  Faerie  Queen? 

Where  are  the  lyric  lips  of  Astrophel? 

Long,  long  ago,  their  quiet  graves  were  green; 
Av,  and  the  grave,  too,  of  their  Faerie  Queen! 


432  TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 

And  yet  their  faces,  hovering  here  unseen, 

Cali  me  to  taste  their  new-found  oenomel; 

To  sup  with  him  who  sang  the  Faerie  Queen; 

To  drink  with  him  whose  name  was  Astrophel. 

hi 

I drink  to  that  great  Inn  beyond  the  grave! 

— If  there  be  none,  the  gods  have  done  us  wrong. — 
Ere  long  I hope  to  chant  a better  stave, 

In  some  great  Mermaid  Inn  beyond  the  grave; 

And  quaff  the  best  of  earth  that  heaven  can  save, 

Red  wine  like  blood,  deep  love  of  friends  and  song. 

I drink  to  that  great  Inn  beyond  the  grave; 

And  hope  to  greet  my  golden  lads  ere  long. 

He  raised  his  cup  and  drank  in  silence.  Brome 
Drank  with  him,  too.  The  bells  had  ceased  to  peal. 
Galen  shook  hands,  and  bade  us  all  good-night; 

Then  Brome,  a little  wistfully,  I thought, 

Looked  at  his  old-time  master,  and  prepared 
To  follow. 

“Good-night — Ben,”  he  said,  a pause 
Before  he  spoke  the  name.  “Good-night!  Good-night! 
My  dear  old  Brome,”  said  Ben. 

And,  at  the  door, 

Brome  whispered  to  me,  “He  is  lonely  now. 

There  are  not  many  left  of  his  old  friends. 

We  all  go  out — like  this — into  the  night. 

But  what  a fleet  of  stars!”  he  said,  and  shook 
My  hand,  and  smiled,  and  pointed  to  the  sky. 

And,  when  I looked  into  the  room  again, 

The  lights  were  very  dim,  and  I believed 
That  Ben  had  fallen  asleep.  His  great  grey  head 
Was  bowed  across  the  table,  on  his  arms. 

Then,  all  at  once,  I knew  that  he  was  weeping; 

And  like  a shadow  I crept  back  again, 

And  stole  into  the  night. 

There  as  I stood 
Under  the  painted  sign,  I could  have  vowed 
That  I,  too,  heard  the  voices  of  the  dead, 


RALEIGH 


433 


The  voices  of  his  old  companions, 

Gathering  round  him  in  that  lonely  room, 
Till  all  the  timbers  of  the  Mermaid  Inn 
Trembled  above  me  with  their  ghostly  song; 


i 

Say  to  the  King,  quoth  Raleigh 
I have  a tale  to  tell  him, 

Wealth  beyond  derision, 

Veils  to  lift  from  the  sky, 
Seas  to  sail  for  England 

And  a little  dream  to  sell  him, — 
Gold,  the  gold  of  a vision, 
That  angels  cannot  buy. 


ii 

Fair  thro’  the  wails  of  his  dungeon, 

— What  were  the  stones  but  a shadow  1 — 
Streamed  the  light  of  the  rapture, 

The  lure  that  he  followed  of  old, 

The  dream  of  his  old  companions, 

The  vision  of  El  Dorado, 

The  fleet  that  they  never  could  capture, 
The  City  of  Sunset-gold. 


hi 

Yet  did  they  sail  the  seas 
And,  dazed  with  exceeding  wonder. 
Straight  through  the  sunset-glory 
Plunge  into  the  dawn : 

Leaving  their  home  behind  them, 

By  a road  of  splendour  and  thunder, 

They  came  to  their  home  in  amazement 
Simply  by  sailing  on. 


28 


44>4  A WATCHWORD  OF  THE  FLEET 

NEW  POEMS 

A WATCHWORD  OF  THE  FLEET 

[For  purposes  of  recognition  at  night  a small  squadron  of 
Elizabethan  ships , crossing  the  Atlantic , adopted  as  a watch- 
word the  sentence:  Before  the  world — was  God.] 

They  diced  with  Death.  Their  big  sea-boots 
Were  greased  with  blood.  They  swept  the  seas 
For  England;  and — we  reap  the  fruits 
Of  their  heroic  deviltries! 

Our  creed  is  in  the  cold  machine, 

The  inhuman  devildoms  of  brain, 

The  bolt  that  splits  the  midnight  main, 

Loosed  at  a lever’s  touch;  the  lean 
Torpedo;  “Twenty  Miles  of  Power”; 

The  steel-clad  Dreadnoughts’  dark  array! 

Yet  . . .we  that  keep  the  conning  tower 
Are  not  so  strong  as  they 

Whose  watchword  we  disdain. 

They  laughed  at  odds  for  England’s  sake! 

We  count,  yet  cast  our  strength  away. 

One  Admiral  with  the  soul  of  Drake 
Would  break  the  fleets  of  hell  to-day! 

Give  us  the  splendid  heavens  of  youth, 

Give  us  the  banners  of  deathless  flame, 

The  ringing  watchwords  of  their  fame, 

The  faith,  the  hope,  the  simple  truth! 

Then  shall  the  Deep  indeed  be  swayed 
Through  all  its  boundless  breadth  and  length, 

Nor  this  proud  England  lean  dismayed 
On  twenty  miles  of  strength, 

Or  shrink  from  aught  but  shame. 

Pull  out  by  night,  0 leave  the  shore 
And  lighted  streets  of  Plymouth  town, 

Pull  out  into  the  Deep  once  more! 

There,  in  the  night  of  their  renown, 


29 


NEW  WARS  FOR  OLD 


435 


The  same  great  waters  roll  their  gloom 
Around  our  midget  period ; 

And  the  huge  decks  that  Raleigh  trod 
Over  our  petty  darkness  loom! 

Along  the  line  the  cry  is  passed 
From  all  their  heaven-illumined  spars, 
Clear  as  a bell,  from  mast  to  mast, 

It  rings  against  the  stars: 

Before  the  world— was  God . 


NEW  WARS  FOR  OLD 

u Peace  with  its  luxury  is  the  corrupter  of  Nations  ” 

Any  militarist  Journal 

I 

Peace!  When  have  we  prayed  for  peace? 

Over  us  burns  a star 
Bright,  beautiful,  red  for  strife! 

Yours  are  only  the  drum  and  the  fife 
And  the  golden  braid  and  the  surface  of  life! 
Ours  is  the  white-hot  war! 

II 

Peace?  When  have  we  prayed  for  peace? 

Ours  are  the  weapons  of  men! 

Time  changes  the  face  of  the  world! 

Therefore  your  ancient  flags  are  furled, 

And  ours  are  the  unseen  legions  hurled 
Up  to  the  heights  again! 

III 

Peace?  When  have  we  prayed  for  peace? 

Is  there  no  wrong  to  right? 

Wrong  crying  to  God  on  high 

Here  where  the  weak  and  the  helpless  die, 

And  the  homeless  hordes  of  the  city  go  by, 
The  ranks  are  rallied  to-night! 


436  THE  PRAYER  FOR  PEACE 

IV 

Peace?  When  have  we  prayed  for  peace? 

Are  ye  so  dazed  with  words? 

Earth,  heaven,  shall  pass  away 

Ere  for  your  passionless  peace  we  pray! 

Are  ye  deaf  to  the  trumpets  that  call  us  to-day, 
Blind  to  the  blazing  swords? 

THE  PRAYER  FOR  PEACE 

“ Unless  public  opinion  can  rise  to  the  height  of  discussing  the 
substitution  of  law  for  force  as  a great  world-movement , ike 
American  arbitration  proposals  cannot  be  carried  out  ” 

Sir  Edward  Grey. 

I 

Dare  we — though  our  hope  deferred 
Left  us  faithless  long  ago — • 

Dare  we  let  our  hearts  be  stirred, 

Lift  them  to  the  light  and  know , 

Cast  away  our  cynic  shields, 

Break  the  sword  that  Mockery  wields, 

Know  that  Truth  indeed  prevails, 

And  that  Justice  holds  the  scales? 

Britain,  kneel! 

Kneel,  Imperial  Commonweal ! 

XI 

Dare  we  know  that  this  great  hour, 

Dawning  on  thy  long  renown, 

Marks  the  purpose  of  thy  power, 

Crowns  thee  with  a mightier  crown, 

Know  that  to  this  purpose  climb 
All  the  blood-red  wars  of  Time? 

If  indeed  thou  hast  a goal 
Beaconing  to  thy  warrior  soul, 

Britain,  kneel! 

Kneel,  Imperial  Commonweal! 


THE  PRAYER  FOR  PEACE 


437 


III 

Dare  we  know  what  every  age 
Writes  with  an  unerring  hand, 

Read  the  midnight’s  moving  page, 
Read  the  stars  and  understand, — 
Out  of  Chaos  ye  shall  draw 
Linked  harmonies  of  Law, 

Till  around  the  Eternal  Sun 
All  your  peoples  move  in  one? 
Britain,  kneel! 

Kneel,  Imperial  Commonweal! 

IV 

Dare  we  know  that  wearied  eyes 
Dimmed  with  dust  of  every  day 
Can,  once  more,  desire  the  skies 
And  the  glorious  upward  way? 
Dare  we,  if  the  Truth  should  still 
Vex  with  doubt  our  alien  will, 

Take  it  to  our  Maker’s  throne, 

Let  Him  speak  with  us  alone? 
Britain,  kneel! 

Kneel,  Imperial  Commonweal! 

V 

Dare  we  cast  our  pride  away? 

Dare  we  tread  where  Lincoln  trod? 
All  the  Future , by  this  dayf 
Waits  to  judge  us  and  our  God! 
Set  the  struggling  peoples  free! 
Crown  with  Law  their  Liberty! 
Proud  with  an  immortal  pride , 

Kneel  we  at  our  Sister’s  side! 

Britain , kneel! 

Kneel , Imperial  Commonweal! 


438 


THE  DAWN  OF  PEACE 


THE  SWORD  OF  ^ENGLAND 

(Written  during  a European  war  crisis) 

Not  as  one  muttering  in  a spell-bound  sleep 
Shall  England  speak  the  word; 

Not  idly  bid  the  embattled  lightnings  leap, 

Nor  lightly  draw  the  sword! 

Let  statesmen  grope  by  night  in  a blind  dream, 
The  cold  clear  morning  star 

Should  like  a trophy  in  her  helmet  gleam 
When  England  sweeps  to  war! 

Not  like  a derelict,  drunk  with  surf  and  spray, 
And  drifting  down  to  doom; 

But  like  the  Sun-god  calling  up  the  day 
Should  England  rend  that  gloom* 

Not  as  in  trance,  at  some  hypnotic  call, 

Nor  with  a doubtful  cry; 

But  a clear  faith,  like  a banner  above  us  all, 
Rolling  from  sky  to  sky. 

She  sheds  no  blood  to  that  vain  god  of  strife 
Whom  striplings  call  “renown”; 

She  knows  that  only  they  who  reverence  life 
Can  nobly  lay  it  down; 

And  these  will  ride  from  child  and  home  and  love, 
Through  death  and  hell  that  day; 

But  O,  her  faith,  her  flag,  must  burn  above, 

Her  soul  must  lead  the  way! 

THE  DAWN  OF  PEACE 

Yes — ‘‘on  our  brows  we  feel  the  breath 

Of  dawn,”  though  in  the  night  we  wait! 

An  arrow  is  in  the  heart  of  Death, 

A God  is  at  the  doors  of  Fate! 


THE  DAWN  OF  PEACE 


439 


The  spirit  that  moved  upon  the  Deep 
Is  moving  through  the  minds  of  men: 

The  nations  feel  it  in  their  sleep, 

A change  has  touched  their  dreams  again. 

Voices,  confused,  and  faint,  arise, 

Troubling  their  hearts  from  East  and  West. 

A doubtful  light  is  in  their  skies, 

A gleam  that  will  not  let  them  rest: 

The  dawn,  the  dawn  is  on  the  wing, 

The  stir  of  change  on  every  side, 

Unsignalled  as  the  approach  of  Spring, 

Invincible  as  the  hawthorn-tide. 

Have  ye  not  heard  it,  far  and  nigh, 

The  voice  of  France  across  the  dark, 

And  all  the  Atlantic  with  one  cry 

Beating  the  shores  of  Europe? — hark! 

Then — if  .ye  will — uplift  your  word 
Of  cynic  wisdom!  Once  again 
Tell  us  He  came  to  bring  a sword, 

Tell  us  He  lived  and  died  in  vain. 

Say  that  we  dream!  Our  dreams  have  woven 
Truths  that  out-face  the  burning  sun: 

The  lightnings,  that  we  'dreamed,  have  cloven 
Time,  space,  and  linked  all  lands  in  one! 
Dreams!  But  their  swift  celestial  fingers 

Have  knit  the  world  with  threads  of  steel, 

Till  no  remotest  island  lingers 

Beyond  the  world’s  one  Commonweal. 

Tell  us  that  custom,  sloth,  and  fear 

Are  strong,  then  name  them  “common-sense”! 
Tell  us  that  greed  rules  everywhere, 

Then  dub  the  lie  “experience”: 

Year  after  year,  age  after  age, 

Has  handed  down,  thro’  fool  and  child, 

For  earth’s  divinest  heritage 

The  dreams  whereon  old  wisdom  smiled. 


440 


THE  BRINGERS  OF  GOOD  NEWS 


Dreams  are  they?  But  ye  cannot  stay  them, 

Or  thrust  the  dawn  back  for  one  hour! 
Truth,  Love,  and  Justice,  if  ye  slay  them, 

Return  with  more  than  earthly  power: 
Strive,  if  ye  will,  to  seal  the  fountains 

That  send  the  Spring  thro'  leaf  and  spray : 
Drive  back  the  sun  from  the  Eastern  mountains, 
Then — bid  this  mightier  movement  stay. 

It  is  the  Dawn  of  Peace!  The  nations 

From  East  to  West  have  heard  a cry, — 

*I * *  4 Though  all  earth’s  blood-red  generations 
By  hate  and  slaughter  climbed  thus  high, 
Here — on  this  height — still  to  aspire, 

One  only  path  remains  untrod, 

One  path  of  love  and  peace  climbs  higher! 

Make  straight  that  highway  for  our  God.” 


THE  BRINGERS  OF  GOOD  NEWS 

Like  fallen  stars  the  watch-fires  gleamed 
Along  our  menaced  age  that  night! 

Our  bivouacked  century  tossed  and  dreamed 
Of  battle  with  the  approaching  light. 

Rumors  of  change,  a sea -like  roar, 

Shook  the  firm  earth  with  doubt  and  dread: 

The  clouds,  in  rushing  legions  bore 
Their  tattered  eagles  overhead. 

I saw  the  muffled  sentries  rest 

On  the  dark  hills  of  Time.  I saw 

Around  them  march  from  East  to  West 
The  stars  of  the  unresting  law. 

I knew  that  in  their  mighty  course 

They  brought  the  dawn,  they  brought  the  day; 

And  that  the  unconquerable  force 

Of  the  new  years  was  on  the  way. 


THE  BRINGERS  OF  GOOD  NEWS 


'441 


I heard  the  feet  of  that  great  throng! 

I saw  them  shine,  like  hope,  afar! 

Their  shout,  their  shout  was  like  a song, 

And  0,  ’twas  not  a song  of  war! 

Yet,  as  the  whole  world  with  their  tramp 
Quivered,  a signal-lightning  spoke, 

A bugle  warned  our  darkling  camp, 

And,  like  a thunder-cloud,  it  woke. 

Our  searchlights  raked  the  world’s  wide  ends. 

O’er  the  dark  hills  a grey  light  crept. 
Down,  through  the  light,  that  host  of  friends 
We  took  for  foemen,  triumphing  swept. 

The  old  century  could  not  hear  their  cry, 

How  should  it  hear  the  song  they  sang? 

Wz  bring  good  news!  It  pierced  the  sky! 

We  bring  good  news!  The  welkin  rang. 

One  shout  of  triumph  and  of  faith;" 

And  then — our  shattering  cannon  roared! 
But,  over  the  reeking  ranks  of  death, 

The  song  rose  like  a single  sword. 

We  bring  good  news 1 Red  flared  the  guns! 

We  bring  good  news!  The  sabres  flashed! 
And  the  dark  age  with  its  own  sons 
In  blind  and  furious  battle  clashed. 

A swift,  a terrible  bugle  pealed. 

The  sulphurous  clouds  were  rolled  away. 
Embraced,  embraced,  on  that  red  field, 

The  wounded  and  the  dying  lay. 

We  bring  good  news!  Blood  choked  the  word, 
— We  knew  you  not;  so  dark  the  night! — 

0 father , was  1 worth  your  sword f 
0 son3  0 herald  of  the  light! 


442 


AT  NOON 


We  bring  good  news ! — The  darkness  fills 

Mine  eyes! — Nay,  the  night  ebbs  away! 
And,  over  the  everlasting  hills, 

The  great  new  dawn  led  on  the  day. 


THE  LONELY  SHRINE 
( A few  months  after  the  Milton  Ter-centenary .) 

I 

The  crowd  has  passed  away, 

Faded  the  feast,  and  most  forget! 

Master,  we  come  with  lowly  hearts  to  pa 3/ 

Our  deeper  debt. 

II 

High  they  upheld  the  wine, 

And  royally,  royally  drank  to  thee! 

Loud  were  their  plaudits.  Now  the  lonely  shrine 
Accents  our  knee. 


Ill 

All  dark  and  silent  now! 

Master,  thy  few  are  faithful  still, 

And  nightly  hear  thy  brooks  that  warbling  flow 
By  Siloa’s  hill. 


AT  NOON 

(after  the  french  of  verlaine) 

The  sky  is  blue  above  the  roof, 

So  calm,  so  blue; 

One  rustling  bough  above  the  roof 
Rocks,  the  noon  through. 


TO  A FRIEND  OF  BOYHOOD  LOST  AT  SEA  443 


The  bell- tower  in  the  sky,  aloof, 
Tenderly  rings! 

A bird  upon  the  bough,  aloof, 

Sorrows  and  sings. 

My  God,  my  God,  and  life  is  here 
So  simple  and  still! 

Far  off,  the  murmuring  town  I hear 
At  the  wind’s  will  .... 

What  hast  thou  done , thou,  weeping  there? 
0 quick , the  truth! 

What  hast  thou  done , thou , weeping  there , 
With  thy  lost  youth ? 


TO  A FRIEND  OF  BOYHOOD  LOST  AT  SEA 

O warm  blue  sky  and  dazzling  sea, 

Where  have  you  hid  my  friend  from  me? 

The  white-chalk  coast,  the  leagues  of  surf 
Laugh  to  the  May-light,  now  as  then, 

And  violets  in  the  short  sweet  turf 
Make  fragmentary  heavens  again, 

And  sea-born  wings  of  rustling  snow 
Pass  and  re-pass  as  long  ago. 


Old  friend,  do  you  remember  yet 
The  days  when  secretly  we  met 

In  that  old  harbor  years  a-back, 
Where  I admired  your  billowing  walk, 

Or  in  that  perilous  fishing  smack 
What  tarry  oaths  perfumed  your  talk, 

The  sails  we  set,  the  ropes  we  spliced, 
The  raw  potato  that  we  sliced, 


For  mackerel-bait — and  how  it  shines 
Far  down,  at  end  of  the  taut  lines! — 

And  the  great  catch  we  made  that  day, 


444 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  TWILIGHT 


Loading  our  boat  with  rainbows,  quick 

And  quivering,  while  you  smoked  your  clay; 
And  I took  home  your  “Deadwood  Dick” 

In  yellow  and  red,  when  day  was  done 
And  you  took  home  my  Stevenson? 

Not  leagues,  as  when  you  sailed  the  deep, 

But  only  some  frail  bars  of  sleep 

Sever  us  now!  Methinks  you  still 
Recall,  as  I,  in  dreams,  the  quay,. 

The  little  port  below  the  hill: 

And  all  the  changes  of  the  sea, 

Like  some  great  music,  can  but  roll 
Our  lives  still  nearer  to  the  goal. 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  TWILIGHT 

Our  Lady  of  the  Twilight 

From  out  the  sunset-lands 
Comes  gently  stealing  o’er  the  world 
And  stretches  out  her  hands, 

Over  the  blotched  and  broken  wall, 

The  blind  and  foetid  lane, 

She  stretches  out  her  hands  and  all 
Is  beautiful  again. 

No  factory  chimneys  can  defile 
The  beauty  of  her  dress: 

She  stoops  down  with  her  heavenly  smile 
To  heal  and  love  and  bless: 

All  tortured  things,  all  evil  powers, 

All  shapes  of  dark  distress 
Are  turned  to  fragrance  and  to  flowers 
Beneath  her  kind  caress. 

Our  Lady  of  the  Twilight, 

She  melts  our  prison-bars! 

She  makes  the  sea  forget  the  shore, 

She  fills  the  sky  with  stars. 


THE  HILL-FLOWERS 


445 


And  stooping  over  wharf  and  mill, 

Chimney  and  shed  and  dome, 

Turns  them  to  fairy  palaces, 

Then  calls  her  children  home. 

She  stoops  to  bless  the  stunted  tree, 

And  from  the  furrowed  plain, 

And  from  the  wrinkled  brow  she  smooths 
The  lines  of  care  and  pain: 

Hers  are  the  gentle  hands  and  eyes 
And  hers  the  peaceful  breath 
That  ope,  in  sunset-softened  skies, 

The  quiet  gates  of  death. 

Our  Lady  of  the  Twilight , 

She  hath  such  gentle  hands , 

So  lovely  are  the  gifts  she  brings 
From  out  the  sunset-lands , 

So  bountiful , so  merciful 

So  sweet  of  soul  is  she; 

And  over  all  the  world  she  draws 
Her  cloak  of  charity . 

THE  HILL-FLOWERS 

“I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  to  the  hills” 

I 

Moving  through  the  dew , moving  through  the  dew , 

Ere  I waken  in  the  city — Life,  thy  dawn  makes  all  things  new! 
And  up  a fir- clad  glen , far  from  all  the  haunts  of  men , 

Up  a glen  among  the  mountains , oh  my  feet  are  wings  again! 

Moving  through  the  dew,  moving  through  the  dew, 

O mountains  of  my  boyhood,  I come  again  to  you, 

By  the  little  path  I know,  with  the  sea  far  below, 

And  above,  the  great  cloud-galleons  with  their  sails  of  rose  and 
snow; 

As  of  old,  when  all  was  young,  and  the  earth  a song  unsung 
And  the  heather  through  the  crimson  dawn  its  Eden  incense 
flung 


THE  HILL-FLOWERS 


44G 

From  the  mountain-heights  of  joy,  for  a careless-hearted  boy, 

And  the  lav  rocks  rose  like  fountain  sprays  of  bliss  that  ne’er 
could  cloy, 

From  their  little  beds  of  bloom,  from  the  golden  gorse  and 
broom, 

With  a song  to  God  the  Giver,  o’er  that  waste  of  wild  perfume; 

Blowing  from  height  to  height,  in  a glory  of  great  light, 

While  the  cottage-clustered  valleys  held  the  lilac  last  of  night, 

So,  when  dawn  is  in  the  skies,  in  a dream,  a dream,  I rise, 

And  I follow  my  lost  boyhood  to  the  heights  of  Paradise. 

Life,  thy  dawn  makes  all  things  new!  Hills  of  Youth,  I come 
to  you, 

Moving  through  the  dew,  moving  through  the  dew. 


II 

Moving  through  the  dew,  moving  through  the  dew, 

Floats  a brother’s  face  to  meet  me!  Is  it  you?  Is  it  you? 

For  the  night  I leave  behind  keeps  these  dazzled  eyes  still  blind! 
But  oh,  the  little  hill-flowers,  their  scent  is  wise  and  kind; 

And  I shall  not  lose  the  way  from  the  darkness  to  the  day, 
While  dust  can  cling  as  their  scent  clings  to  memory  for  aye; 
And  the  least  link  in  the  chain  can  recall  the  whole  again, 

And  heaven  at  last  resume  its  far-flung  harvests,  grain  by  grain. 

To  the  hill-flowers  clings  my  dust,  and  tho’  eyeless  Death  may 
thrust 

All  else  into  the  darkness,  in  their  heaven  I put  my  trust; 

And  a dawn  shall  bid  me  climb  to  the  little  spread  of  thyme 
Where  first  I heard  the  ripple  of  the  fountain-heads  of  rhyme. 

And  a fir-wood  that  I know,  from  dawn  to  sunset-glow, 

Shall  whisper  to  a lonely  sea,  that  swings  far,  far  below. 

Death,  thy  dawn  makes  all  things  new.  Hills  of  Youth,  I 
come  to  you, 

Moving  through  the  dew,  moving  through  the  dew. 


THE  CAROL  OF  THE  FIR-TREE 


447 


THE  CAROL  OF  THE  FIR-TREE 

Quoth  the  Fir-tree,  “ Orange  and  vine” 
Sing  1 Nowell,  Nowell,  Nowell  7 
“Have  their  honour:  I have  mine!” 

In  Excelsis  Gloria! 

“I  am  kin  to  the  great  king's  house,” 
Ring  ‘Nowell,  Nowell,  Nowell  7 
“And  Lebanon  whispers  in  my  boughs. 7 
In  Excelsis  Gloria! 

Apple  and  cherry,  pear  and  plum, 

Winds  of  Autumn,  sigh  ‘Nowell  7 
All  the  trees  like  mages  come 
Bending  low  with  ‘ Gloria 7 
Holding  out  on  every  hand 
Summer  pilgrims  to  Nowell! 

Gorgeous  gifts  from  Elfin-land. 

And  the  May  saith  ‘ Gloria 7 

Out  of  the  darkness — who  shall  say 
Gold  and  myrrh  for  this  Nowell! 

How  they  win  their  wizard  way? 

Out  of  the  East  with  ‘ Gloria 7 
Men  that  eat  of  the  sun  and  dew 
Angels  laugh  and  sing,  ‘Nowell.1 
Call  it  “fruit,”  and  say  it  “grew”! 

Into  the  West  with  ‘ Gloria  7 

“Leaves  that  fall,”  whispered  the  Fir 
Through  the  forest  sing  ‘ Nowell 7 
“I  am  winter's  minister.” 

In  Excelsis  Gloria! 

Summer  friends  may  come  and  go, 

Up  the  mountain  sing  ‘ Nowell A 
Love  abides  thro'  storm  and  snow. 

Down  the  valley,  ‘ Gloria  7 

“On  my  boughs,  on  mine  on  mine,” 
Father  and  mother,  sing  ‘ Nowell 7 
“All  the  fruits  of  the  earth  shall  twine.” 
Bending  low  with  ‘Gloria.1 


448 


THE  CAROL  OF  THE  FIR-TREE 


“ Sword  of  wood  and  doll  of  wax” 

Little  children , sing  ‘Nowell’ 

“ Swing  on  the  stem  was  cleft  with  the  axe!” 
Craftsmen  all , a ‘Gloria.’ 

“Hear!  I have  looked  on  the  other  side.” 
Out  of  the  East , 0 sing  ‘Nowell’! 

“Because  to  live  this  night  I died!” 

Into  the  West  with  ‘Gloria.’ 

“Hear!  In  this  lighted  room  I have  found” 
Ye  that  seek,  0 sing  ‘Nowell’! 

“The  spell  that  worketh  underground.” 

Ye  that  doubt , a ‘Gloria.’ 

“I  have  found  it,  even  I,” 

Ye  that  are  lowly,  sing  ‘Nowell’! 

“The  secret  of  this  alchemy!” 

Ye  that  are  poor,  a ‘Gloria.’ 

“Look,  your  tinsel  turneth  to  gold.” 

Sing  ‘ Nowell ! Nowell!  Nowell!’ 

“Your  dust  to  a hand  for  love  to  hold!” 

In  Excelsis  Gloria. 

“Lay  the  axe  at  my  young  stem  now!” 
Woodman,  woodman,  sing  ‘ Nowell.’ 

“Set  a star  on  every  bough!” 

In  Excelsis  Gloria! 

“Hall  and  cot  shall  see  me  stand,” 

Rich  and  poor  man,  sing  ‘Nowell’! 

“Giver  of  gifts  from  Elfin-land.” 

Oberon,  answer  ‘Gloria.’ 

“Hung  by  the  hilt  on  your  Christmas-tree” 
Little  children , sing  ‘Nowell’! 

“Your  wooden  sword  is  a cross  for  me.” 
Emperors,  a ‘Gloria.’ 

“I  have  found  that  fabulous  stone” 
Ocean-worthies,  cry  ‘Nowell.’ 

“Which  turneth  all  things  into  one,” 

Wise  men  all,  a ‘Gloria.’ 


THE  CAROL  OF  THE  FIR-TREE 


449 


“It  is  not  ruby  nor  anything” 

Jeweller , jeweller , sing  1 Nowell1! 

“Fit  for  the  crown  of  an  earthly  King:” 
In  Excelsis  Gloria! 

“It  is  not  here!  It  is  not  there!” 
Traveller , rest  and  cry  ‘ Nowell 7 
“It  is  one  thing  and  everywhere!” 
Heaven  and  Earth  sing  ‘Gloria.’ 


“It  is  the  earth,  the  moon,  the  sun,” 

Mote  in  the  sunbeam,  sing  ‘Nowell1! 

“And  all  the  stars  that  march  as  one.” 

In  Excelsis  Gloria! 

“Here,  by  the  touch  of  it,  I can  see” 

Sing , 0 Life,  a sweet  Nowell! 

“The  world's  King  die  on  a Christmas-tree.” 
Answer , Death,  with  ‘Gloria.’ 


“Here,  not  set  in  a realm  apart,” 
East  and  West  are  one  ‘ Nowell  7 
“Holy  Land  is  in  your  Heart!” 
North  and  South  one  ‘ Gloria  7 
“Death  is  a birth,  birth  is  a death,” 
Love  is  all,  0 sing  ' Nowell 7 
“And  London  one  with  Nazareth.” 
And  all  the  World  a ‘Gloria.1 


“And  angels  over  your  heart's  roof  sing” 

Birds  of  God,  0 pour  ‘Nowell1! 

“That  a poor  man's  son  is  the  Son  of  a King!” 
Out  of  your  heart  this  ‘ Gloria  7 
“Round  the  world  you'll  not  away” 

In  your  own  soul,  they  sing  ‘Nowell1! 

“From  Holy  Land  this  Christmas  Day!” 

In  your  own  soul , this  ‘Gloria.’ 


450 


LAVENDER 


LAVENDER 

Lavender,  lavender 

That  makes  your  linen  sweet; 
The  hawker  brings  his  basket 
Down  the  sooty  street: 

The  dirty  doors  and  pavements 
Are  simmering  in  the  heat: 
He  brings  a dream  to  London, 
And  drags  his  weary  feet. 


Lavender,  lavender, 

From  where  the  bee  hums, 

To  the  loud  roar  of  London, 

With  purple  dreams  he  comes, 
From  ragged  lanes  of  wild-flowers 
To  ragged  London  slums, 

With  a basket  full  of  lavender 
And  purple  dreams  he  comes. 


Is  it  nought  to  you  that  hear  him? 

With  the  old  strange  cry 
The  weary  hawker  passes, 

And  some  will  come  and  buy, 

And  some  will  let  him  pass  away 
And  only  heave  a sigh, 

But  most  will  neither  heed  nor  hear 
When  dreams  go  by. 


Lavender , lavender! 

His  songs  were  fair  and  sweety 
He  brought  us  harvests  out  of  heaven , 
Full  sheaves  of  radiant  wheat; 

He  brought  us  keys  to  Paradisef 
And  hawked  them  thro 1 the  street; 
He  brought  his  dreams  to  London , 
And  dragged  his  weary  feet . 


LAVENDER 


451 


Lavender,  lavender! 

He  is  gone.  The  sunset  glows; 
But  through  the  brain  of  London 
The  mystic  fragrance  flows. 
Each  foggy  cell  remembers, 

Each  ragged  alley  knows, 

The  land  he  left  behind  him, 

The  land  to  which  he  goes. 


/ 


PR6027 
.08 
f*  5 


3 


9031 


Noyes,  Alfred 
Collected  poems 


